the 73rd Hunger Games
by avian-american-supporter
Summary: She's twelve, but she's smart. Now, she has to fight for her life. T because it's the Hunger Games.
1. Prologue

It's the sunlight that wakes me. It burns red behind my eyelids before my eyes open to its bright shine.

I blink against the sharp light and turn away. But what I see makes me confused. All around me, stalks of wheat sway in the wind, caressing my skin and snuggling against my clothes.

I sit up, trying to figure out where I am. The wind blows through my brown hair, which must have fallen out of its ponytail at some point. I scan the stalks of wheat for the red hair band and find it in the dirt.

Then I stand, finally realizing what must have happened. I must have fallen asleep on the job again, here in the wheat fields.

I'm stretching, getting the soreness of yesterday out of my muscles in preparation for today's fresh, new load that's sure to come, when I wonder what time it is, what day.

By glimpsing up again at the sun, I can guess it's about eight in the morning.

As for the day? It doesn't hit me until…

Oh, no.

And then I'm running, running, running through the fields, frantically trying to get back home. _How could I have forgotten?_ My mother will kill me.

When I hit grass, I don't stop. _Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop,_ I tell myself over and over again. _I can't be late._

But I already am. By the time I reach my house, unmistakable with wooden front door still barely in place, my mother is already in that stance inside, the stance I see way too often for a twelve-year-old girl growing up in District 9.

"You're late," is all she says. Her hands on her hips, arms tense, foot tapping, suggests that she's been waiting for me to show up for a while.

"Sorry," I mutter, and I actually half-mean it this time.

"Your dress is hanging on your door," my mother calls from behind me.

I rush up the stairs, my steps silent. On the door to my room, hanging on its hanger, is the dress my aunt wore when she was twelve. I guess she must have looked like I do now – lean, skinny, perhaps looking a little too mature for my age. I dress quickly in the light brown dress that's supposed to look nice with the slightly darker color of my hair. Once I'm done, I come back down the stairs without looking at my reflection in the mirror. My mother promptly sits me in the chair wordlessly and tugs a brush through my hair before tying it up in a neat bun on top of my head.

My father comes in then, returning from his job at the mill. "Hello, honey," he says to my mother and kisses her on the head. Then he kneels down to me, looking into my eyes in an adoring, fatherly way that I feel I don't deserve. "You look beautiful, darling."

I suppose I might be pretty. I suppose that might mean something if I was anywhere else.

But here, it doesn't, especially not today. Why we have to dress up so nicely for this event still doesn't make sense to me.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who doesn't think reaping day is a day to celebrate.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Welcome, welcome," Effie Trinket's voice says over the microphone as the district's people file into the reaping area. "The time has come to select one courageous man and woman to represent District Nine in the seventy-third annual Hunger Games." The line I've seen her repeat for years and years has been engraved in my head by now, especially the cheerful tone in which she says it.

But this is my first time here, squished in close to all the other girls, their hair braded fancily like mine and their dresses spotless. This is my first time here, with my heart beating fast and knowing everyone here, everyone whose name is in that glass ball, has a heart beating at the same speed. This is my first time here, with that nauseous feeling in my gut and my forehead breaking out with sweat even though it isn't hot.

Not for the first time, I wonder if I'll be picked. Even if this is my first year being part of the reaping, I've had enough nightmares of this moment to make me feel like this is at least the eighteenth time I have to suffer through this.

I scan the crowd, not looking for anyone I know by name, but for the person whose life is about to change the most by this time tomorrow – the person whose name will be called in Effie Trinket's cheerful, pleasant Capitol voice.

I think about my mother, father, and little brother far away, on the sidelines of the isle whoever is selected will walk down once his or her name is called. But all I can hope now is that this won't go the same as all the nightmares I've had have gone.

A breeze blows by and I realize how stiff I am. I stand like a tree branch, my legs tense and my hands clenched into sweaty fists at my sides, nearly shaking from nervousness.

"Ladies first!" Effie trills from up front. Her sparkly pink heels make clacking sounds that echo through the still air that the suspense makes silent.

My heart is hammering madly inside me now. I bite my lip and taste blood, but I can't stop.

Her hand sweeps over the slips of paper, and then she swoops down like a bird diving in for the kill and snatches up a folded piece of white paper. I find myself holding my breath, as does everyone else, and all I can do now is hope, hope, hope that it isn't me. It won't be me. It won't be me. It won't be me.

She opens her mouth, and speaks clearly into the microphone a first and a last name.

The dictates each syllable separately, clearly. "Thyme Willows," she calls, and my breath catches in my throat.

I feel myself freeze, and wonder when I will wake up. But then, every eye turns to me, and I know this has to be real.

I stiffen my lip and force myself to walk. My heartbeats still hammer in my chest, but now they hammer unevenly, uncomfortably.

Everyone goes silent, an upset look in their eyes as there always is when a twelve-year-old is picked.

With every eye of District 9 on me, I make my way, slowly, still half-frozen, to the stage, where Effie ushers me up to the girls' side. And then I'm there, standing where so many District 9 tributes stood before me, nearly every single one killed off by some murderous child from another district.

I barely hear it, but through my trance I hear another name – "Kurt Fields." The second tribute approaches the stage. I try to make myself calm down, focus, clear my head. I set my jaw and decide to think about what this means later, but for now, just… stay cool. Don't show weakness.

Kurt is about sixteen, maybe a little older. He has brown hair and brown eyes, but pale skin that's lighter than mine – I get a small tan from working outside every day.

I tell myself to stand straight, to look tough. I can't be scared. I won't. I refuse to show any fear.

I'll have plenty of time to show that later.

"Ladies and gentlemen – our tributes from District Nine!"


	3. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER FOREVER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES SUZANNE COLLINS DOES. :)

Chapter 2

I swallow hard as Effie puts her hand on my back and leads Kurt and me off the stage. "Come on, you too," she says in her ridiculous Capitol accent. "You have half an hour to say goodbye to your families."

I don't have to search for my family. They're already standing in front of us, my mother with her hands clasped together and her lips pursed tight, my father with a stunned look on his face, and my kid brother tugging on the hem of my mother's dress, asking her if he can go play tag with the other kids because he doesn't understand what just happened.

"Thyme," my father gasps as he draws me into a tight hug. He embraces me tightly without having to bend over because the top of my head normally reaches his nose. I bury my face in his neck, memorizing the way he smells and how that will be what carries me through the arena when the time comes.

After several minutes, my mother makes a small cough and I'm released. My other takes a small step toward me, looking extra-carefully at her white shoes.

"Thyme," she says. I don't like the way my name sounds on her tongue. "I'm sorry this had to happen to you." She reaches over and pats me gently on the shoulder – the nicest gesture she's ever made toward me.

My mother reaches down to touch my brother. "Honey," she says, still looking at me, "do you want to say goodbye to your sister?"

He seems confused. "Where is she going?"

"Away," my mother whispers. And for once, she doesn't say it with relief.

He seems to pause, concentrating for a second before turning to me and saying, "Nah!" like any little, obnoxious brother would. I never wanted a brother.

My father again wraps me in a big hug. I can feel water starting to drip on my shoulder when I realize my father is crying. I have never seen my father cry. "Just close your eyes," he whispers to me, so softly I'm not sure I really heard it.

"You'll be all right," I whisper back, saying the next line to the lullaby he would sing to me at night when I couldn't sleep.

"Come morning light." His words are broken.

"You and I'll be safe and sound."

And then Effie returns and my father breaks his grip, and I'm pulled away, choked sobs escaping me as the last image I'll ever have of my father – broken and weeping with tears streaming down his face – embeds itself in my mind until the day I die.

Author's Note:

I know this is really short, I apologize. But once we get into the arena, I promise things will really get interesting. Yes, yes, yes. VERRRRRYYY. I think the hardest part so far was the names. Well, also the way it's written. _The Hunger Games_ is a plot-heavy book, of course, but sometimes, it can just be, "I got food" then, "I got water after that" you know? So a lot of the Games is actually the writing part, because it's what keep it interesting in those parts. So yeah. ~avian-american-supporter :3


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Outside the train window, the spacious grain fields of District 9 stretch on as far as I can see. I know I will miss this district. It's a shame I'll probably never see it again.

In the chair next to me – the chair with golden-embroidered designs clearly stating it's from the Capitol – Kurt stares past me out the window, too. Together, we watch District 9 vanish into the distance.

I do not say anything to Kurt. Not because I'm particularly unfriendly, but because it just doesn't feel right, to talk to this stranger that might end up killing me in the end. Instead, I keep my lips tightly pursed together and feel every muscle in my body tense. I haven't relaxed all day, since I woke up in that wheat field.

"So you're twelve," Kurt says finally.

Surprised by the noise, I look at him. "Yes," I answer simply.

He nods, and doesn't say anything else. I suppose that's all he thinks matters, that I'll be a weak opponent that will probably be killed within the first day of the Games. An angry fire ignites in my and I feel a crease form in between my eyebrows. "What's it to you?" I snap.

He appears to be alarmed by my outburst. He seems to lean slightly away from me, as if I might explode. "Nothing," he tells me, "I just think it's sad that someone so young has to go through this."

Oh.

I turn away, feeling embarrassed for judging him so quickly. I shouldn't have done that. I haven't gotten to the Capitol, or even the arena, and I'm already making mistakes.

A door opens, the sound filling the empty space in the train car. A woman walks in, maybe almost in her thirties, wearing a gray tank top that shows her muscular frame and jeans that make her look even tougher. "Hello, tributes." The way she says that last word makes me feel like it's my new name now and she's the first one to address me by it.

Neither Kurt nor I say anything. The woman stands in front of us, her feet spread shoulder-length apart and her hands on her hips. She inspects us like a circus trainer inspects the new tiger that came in today – like she's analyzing what she needs to do to whip us into proper shape.

"I'm Mabel and I'll be your mentor," she tells us. Her voice is strong and sort of masculine, like experience has hardened it. "I'm going to be preparing you for your time in the Games."

Nothing happens for a second, but then Kurt stands and holds out his hand. A shake. The woman, Mabel, lifts her chin, glad to see some personality in one of us, and takes his hand roughly, shaking with feeling. Then she reaches down to me, who hasn't moved, my hands clasped between my knees. I take her hand, trying to seem assertive in my handshake, but she outdoes me. While I try to be tough, she _is _tough.

"Which Games were you in?" Kurt asks her. I'm not sure if it's out of real curiosity or just to have something to say.

"The sixty-first," she answers, staring into space, maybe, as if reliving the exper-ience. "I was seventeen."

Seventeen. I'm twelve.

"What was your weapon?" Kurt asks, probably genuinely curious this time.

"My brain," Mabel answers. "We're from District Nine – smarts is the best we've got, right?"

I consider this. I am smart, or at least I'm not stupid. I know of a few plants that are not harmful to eat, though I don't know what I will find once I go into that arena.

"That was it?" Kurt presses. "You didn't need any weapon at all?"

"Really, what I used most was a small sword. I used that to get rid of an opponent's weapon before taking it to hand-to-hand combat once they were defenseless. Not many go for hand-to-hand since there'll be so many weapons at their disposal and it's also unlikely they'll be caught without the weapon they choose," she says.

That might not be me. Ever since the reaping, I've decided I would avoid the bloodbath at the Cornucopia altogether and just try to get away.

"With the proper training, you guys'll be fine…" Mabel trails off as I stare out the window as we near the Capitol.

For the first time I wonder what my strategy will be besides avoiding the Cornucopia in the beginning. I guess it all depends on what the arena will be like, though.

I turn to Mabel with a straight face. "Are you the only victor from Nine?" I ask. It's the first time I speak to her.

She looks back at me with a grim expression and says, "The only one."

**Author's Note:**

**This is probably the longest chapter so far, so that's good.**

**I was reminded on the last chapter through a review that Effie isn't supposed to come to District Nine, but I didn't really know that at first, so… oops. :( But anyway, I hope that isn't too important, because it isn't like she's a main, main character or anything. So tell be what you think of Mabel and Thyme and Kurt and review please! :) And remember my "disclaimer forever" on the previous chapter – I do not own _The Hunger Games_ but Thyme, Kurt, and Mabel are my characters.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The first thing I notice about the Capitol is the people. I don't know how they manage to go out in public, looking so ridiculous.

Mabel seems unfazed by the people here as we get off the train. She ignores the lady with the green eyes, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, fingernails, shoes, and sparkled dress as well as the lady next to her with a similar ensemble just purple. This one's really gone wild. Even her _hair_ is purple. In District 9, wearing anything like this would be outrageous.

But they pay no mind to my disgusted stares and Kurt's wide eyes and mouth that has fallen down to the floor. Instead, they watch us come, following Mabel, up to the Justice Building, where we are going to stay in until the Games.

I gulp. _The Games._

"Now," Mabel says once we're inside and in our rooms, "training starts tomorrow. Do you guys have a plan as to what you're going to be showing off?"

What do I have to show off?

"I can probably learn how to use a spear," Kurt volunteers.

"And I can learn how to use a knife," I say, just to say something. I won't show my hesitation – if Kurt wants to compete with me, if he plans on being the one to kill me, my saying something quickly will give him the impression that I actually know what's happening.

"All right," Mabel says. "Have you guys ever handled a weapon?"

"No," Kurt answers easily.

"Yes," I answer quickly, but not too quickly to sound suspicious. "I know a little hand-to-hand as well." I'm not completely lying – my father once taught me some hand-to-hand moves when these boys at school were messing with me and he thought something needed to be done about it. Now, I know a few techniques. And I've _seen_ plenty of people handle knives in the grain fields to sheer down the stalks.

How different can grain be from people?

"You guys should eat. It's been a long day," Mabel says.

She's right. It has been a long day. It's weird to think that just this morning, I didn't know I'd be sucked into all of this, didn't know my name would be pulled, didn't know I was going to the Games, didn't know I was going to die.

When the food comes, we eat in silence. There isn't really that much else to talk about.

The only discussion that comes up is simple chatter about the food, comments like, "You should try the potatoes" or "How's the soup?" or even "These dishes are nice."

But Mabel catches my attention when she asks, "What's it like back home for you two?"

I'm so surprised by her question that I drop my spoon, which lands with a small "plop" in my soup bowl, spewing little droplets of soup over me. I ignore it and pick the spoon back up, lifting it to my mouth, and continuing my meal without saying anything.

Kurt looks up to Mabel. "I have three brothers. Two younger, one older. My older brother is seventeen."

That means his sixth year in the reaping. What must it be like, having your name called in the reaping and having an older brother or sister that could take your place, but chooses not to?

"Hmm," is all Mabel says. Perhaps she's thinking the same thing I am. "I had a brother, too. He was eighteen." That means he was also participating in the reaping, but he could not volunteer for her. I wonder if she still wonders if he would have if he could.

"What about you?" Mabel's voice.

I look up to see her gaze on me. Kurt's eyes also drift from his plate to me, as well.

"I have a younger brother," I say. "He is too young to understand."

I'm sure they both understand that. Parents don't like to explain to young children about the tragedy that is the Hunger Games.

I notice that no one has brought up parents. I'm glad, because I know that if I were asked to talk about them, my father in particular, I wouldn't be able to keep that barricade up that shields me from the tears that will want to spill.

After that, no one speaks and all that can be heard are the clinking and clanging of the metal utensils on our fancy dishes. Everything seems so surreal here, so unnatural, that it doesn't feel like I'm being myself. Maybe that's the worst part of the Games: knowing they'll change you, but not knowing who you'll turn into.

**Author's Note:**

**Comment, please please please please please please? **

**Predictions, anyone? Thoughts? Please?**


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"You've got to _sell_ it," Agathe tells me in her accent that sounds German to me. "Spin around."

Agathe is a thin, thin woman, maybe in her forties, with obviously dyed blonde hair and dark red lipstick and thick mascara. Her shirt matches her vibrant hair.

I try not to sigh as I spin around again in my light brown dress.

For the chariot ride, Kurt and I will be wearing matching colors – a light brown the color of wheat. My hair will be up in a bun, I'll be wearing makeup – something I've never even _touched_ before, and lace-up boots like the ones we wear in the grain fields.

The dress poofs out at the ends a little when I spin, and my legs disappear beneath me when I look down.

"It just needs a little… hmm," Agathe mutters to herself. Suddenly, she perks up from her inspecting posture in which she wears all the time whenever she sees me, noticing all my flaws. She almost reminds me of my mother.

She flies over to the shelves lining the room, with countless items to pretty me up. She fumbles around with the boxes marked "hair" and "ribbons" and then brings out a headband that matches the color of my hair and a big yellow bow. She shoves it onto my head in front of my bun and ties a matching yellow ribbon around my waist, also with a bow on it. "Like the sun," she tells me, motioning to the ribbon on my head, "shinning on a field of grain."

When I look in the mirror, a girl looks back at me. She has a light brown dress and yellow bows. She wears boots like she's been working in the grain fields, but something about her makes me doubt she's ever seen the fields at all. Maybe it's her hair, perfectly shaped into a bun so no stray hair can be seen. Or maybe it's her face, and how alien she looks to me.

The crowd is loud in the Capitol. Much louder than District 9. The noise hurts my ears and makes my head spin.

Kurt and I try to smile as we ride after the other chariots in the chariot parade. I sit on a white horse with, of course, a yellow bow and ribbon tied around its neck, as Agathe loves the color so much. "The white symbolizes purity," she had told us before we set out. "The yellow is the sun shinning through it." She keeps trying to make the yellow sound like the sun, but I think it's just a matter of her preference for the color. "Diversity never hurt," she had said.

Now I am on my horse, trotting on after District 8's chariot, waving and smiling widely in a fake way I never do. I wonder if anyone can notice.

I catch a glimpse at Kurt on the white horse behind me, and see he's doing the same thing. It's comforting to know that some one else feels as alien as I do here.

I sit up straighter, even though my palms are sweating and I feel slightly queasy. I try to make my waves and smiles look genuine – after all, after Agathe had had my teeth made to a perfect white, making me sit there for three hours while they worked on me, I had to at least try to show them off.

The crowd goes crazy as I pass them, the twelve-year-old girl suddenly made gorgeous over night. I didn't feel gorgeous, though, no matter how many times I tried to flash that billion-dollar smile, or tried to have graceful instead of jerky movements as I waved my hand back and forth, back and forth, ignoring the soreness in my arm.

By the time we were done, I was exhausted. I immediately went straight to the bathroom, washing off the light layer of makeup Agathe had put on me to make my face look smoother.

As I looked up into the mirror, finally me again, I realized something: I just didn't get it. Why were they making me feel famous when all I did was get my name announced? All I had to do was stand there and feel my heart in my throat and get shipped off to the Capitol. Why are they trying to make me feel like I did something fabulous? I am nothing. I am not fabulous. I am just a District 9 girl that wishes she could be someone else – anyone else – but who she has to be.

**Author's Note:**

**So here's chapter 5! I'm kind of sketchy on the details of the events leading up to the Games – I'm only writing all this because I wanted to be in the arena but I wanted to start with the reaping! So sorry if this is a little weak – I feel like I'm trying to cut to the chase and get into the real Games, if you know what I mean. **


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"So what have we decided for today?"

Today is training day – the day we get scored on how well we're estimated to do in the arena. I shiver. Just thinking about it brings dread into my mind. _The arena._

"I'm going to be trying a spear," Kurt says.

"I'll try knives," I say quietly to my lap. "And some hand-to-hand. Plant recognition."

"Sounds good," Mabel says. "We better get you down there now."

We take the elevator down to the gym where we'll be testing our abilities. The ride is quiet except for the whir of the machine taking us down, down, down.

The doors open and Mabel, Kurt, and I step out into the gym where all the districts' tributes before us stand in a line. Kurt and I rush to the end of it just as a woman – a Gamemaker, I realize – addresses the tributes.

"Today you will be testing out your abilities to help you to survive in the arena. Use this time wisely – the next two days will mean either life or death for each of you." And with that, she turns and walks away.

The gym has a bunch of different stations set up. There's already a kid at the knife station, and I don't want to but in, so I head over to the hand-to-hand station, which is empty. The trainer is a lean, muscled woman who smiles at me in greeting. "Welcome," she tells me warmly. "I'm Olive and I'll be teaching you hand-to-hand combat."

"Alright," I say, stepping onto the wrestling mat.

"Follow after me," she says, and as she takes her stance, me mirroring her, I start to feel a little hope. Seeing another girl like that, even if she has years of experience that I don't, comforts me. Maybe I can survive here.

But it's only an instant before that hope runs out as I remember who I'm up against.

By the end of training that day, I've worked on knife throwing and handling, snare building and other traps, plant recognition and identification, and of course hand-to-hand combat, where I've been spending most of my time, remembering Mabel.

Then, before I know it, it's time to show the Gamemakers what I've been working to perfect. Being the girl fro District Nine, I go after Kurt and before the tributes of Districts 10, 11, and 12.

Though I haven't been keeping an eye on Kurt during training, he's been announcing his progress openly at meals with Mabel, Agathe and I. I, however, see Kurt as an enemy, another opponent to kill, and do not share my day's success or failure.

I do, though, wish him luck before he heads into the gym, a nervous look on his face. When he's called, he walks through the doors, and it's just me there, all alone, or at least I feel like I am. I should know that moments like these will be the only alone time I will soon get, since after I'm put in that arena, all eyes will watch me.

And then I hear my name, Kurt exiting through the door, struggling to keep a neutral look on his face. Some part of me says, "Get up, Thyme," and so I do, like a robot, moving to the door.

When I walk in the gym, I find a knife and feel the tip with my finger. Sharp. It's from the Capitol – what else was I expecting?

The Gamemakers on their platform eye me with interest, probably wondering what the youngest tribute has as a pathetic strategy to make it through the first day.

I set my jaw and turn my head to look at the dummy on the other side of the gym. I walk toward it, keeping the steps of my boots firm and sure, letting them ring out loudly for them all to hear.

The knife in my hand doesn't feel like it belongs there, and I know then that I will not be able to kill. I will not be able to kill, but I will make it look like I can.

First, I raise the knife to my ear, taking a deep breath, feeling the air course through my lungs and back out again. Then my muscles coil and the knife flies through the air, slicing toward the dummy, and my knife punctures its right shoulder. I don't mention that I was going for the chest.

Then I approach it, wrapping my hand in a tight grip around the hilt, and bring it downward, slicing its arm off. Then, for effect, I propel all my anger that I've ever felt since the reaping – no, since before that – and slice the dummy hard across the chest, letting the stuffing show from underneath the blue coating. My slice is deep – maybe halfway into the figure, and I can feel the Gamemakers' eyes on me, watching the twelve-year-old that suddenly seems three times more vicious.

Then my fist clenches harder around the hilt before I whirl, sending the weapon twenty feet outward at a target, where the knife sticks out, hilt-deep. Then, quietly, I walk like a fox – outside of the foot first – to the knife. Halfway there, I sprint, on my toes, silently and quickly, to grab the knife from the target. I then quickly pace to the rack of weapons, taking up two more knives and launching them, one by one, at the same target. The first hits 3 bars from the middle. The second right in between the first and the second. And the third doesn't imbed itself into it at all. Instead, it flies to the second knife, hitting its hilt before clattering to the ground.

I look up to the Gamemakers, hoping to have impressed them. But then they just nod before saying, "You may be dismissed" as the head Gamemaker scribbles madly on a pad with a fancy Capitol pen with a feather curling off the end.

But as I turn to go, even as I think about how low my score might be – possibly a three or a four – I know that I left a scratch in that second knife where my third hit it.

A scar in the Capitol – that's what I've made.

**Author's Note:**

**So thanks to everyone that's been staying with me, I really appreciate it. :)))**

**So yeah, I know this is sort of rushed, but I tried to make this sound impressive and awesome and epic all at once, which is a little difficult when trying to be quick, you know? And I'm rushing because first of all, forgive me, Thyme, it doesn't really get exciting until you reach the arena. And… you'll see why I'm rushing later on. I don't know when, but eventually, you will see. Hehehe a mystery.  
~avian-american-supporter :3**


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Later, at dinner, Kurt begins to share how he did with his spear almost immediately.

"I threw it at a target, and I somehow got right in the middle. I snuck a look at the Gamemakers to see their reaction, and a few of them were nodding. Then I speared some of those blue dummies. I think it went pretty well," he says.

"And you, Thyme?" Agathe asks in her German-like accent.

"I did okay," I tell them plainly.

Agathe doesn't press me for more, and neither does Mabel. After that, we just eat in silence as we wait for the scores to show on the TV.

After the delicious Capitol dinner of stew and rice, we hear the TV starting to announce the scores. The career tributes usually score an eight to ten, but the District 1 boy only got a four, and the girl got a seven.

The District 3 tribute girl, however, with her straight blonde hair streaked with brown, naturally, and piercing green eyes, scored a ten. She's a threat.

Then Kurt's picture shows on the screen, and the number seven is flashing on the screen under his name. Mabel grips his shoulder and shakes him gently, glad that he did alright.

Then my picture is on the screen, and I stare back at myself, looking at the girl who will not be alive anymore by two months' time.

And then the number six is flashing underneath me, and the boy from District 10 is on the screen, replacing me.

"Nice, Thyme," Mabel says. "My training score was an eight, when I played."

_Played. _She _played_ the Games.

"I'm going to bed," I say, and get up, dismissing myself.

"But aren't you going to watch to see the other tributes' scores?" Mabel asks.

I don't answer. Instead, I continue to my room, thinking about tomorrow – interview day before all of Panem.

Author's Note:

I know this one chapter is embarrassingly short and whimpy, but the next one is already written and it's super long, like, 5 pages on Word or something. The next one is the interviews – yay! We're almost in the arena. I believe that will be chapter 10.

(Yours featherly,)

**~avian-american-supporter**


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Wonderful, wonderful!" Agathe cries as I spin around, unwillingly, in my interview dress. "It's perfect! Simply gorgeous!"

I try to smile, but I'm afraid it doesn't look right. "Now, go see Mabel to discuss your interview plans!" Agathe tells me.

In my shoes – yellow flats studded with big yellow jewels at the toes – I make my way over to Mabel's room, where she's just finishing up with Kurt. Despite everything, I like the way the soft fabric of the dress feels when it brushes against my legs as I walk. It's made of a soft material and it's sort of ruffled – folded in on itself delicately so when I spin around, it poofs out wide. It's yellow that fades into brown and the top goes around my neck and ties in a bow at the back that hangs limply. I wear a headband matching my shoes and my hair is worn down, but Agathe had it curled so it looks artificial but beautiful at the same time.

My hair bounces as I walk. I think about that and no on the Games as I open the door to Mabel's room. She's in there, waiting for me, sitting in a big chair accompanied by a small table and another chair across from it. "Sit," she says without preamble.

I sit in the chair, sinking into its luxurious cushion. "What're we going to do?"

"Honestly, I think we'd better go with the sympathy angle. You're twelve – young – and you're suddenly in the Games. The audience probably thinks you won't make it past the first day. You're defenseless. Make the crowd feel sorry for you," Mabel says with confidence.

"How do I do that?" I don't want to play the helpless little girl, but maybe I can trick the other tributes in to thinking I'm weak. It won't be that hard.

"Easy. Just speak shyly, but when you do speak, make it powerful. Make weak, delicate gestures like lightly flipping your hair back, being modest, self-conscious. Fiddle with the hem of your dress."

"And that will help me how? You make me sound hopeless. No one's going to put their money on me if I'm so hopeless. I won't be worth it," I insist.

"Do you have family back home?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Any little siblings?"

"Yeah, a little brother, but why –"

"How old is he?"

"Four."

"Perfect. Just say you wish you could be there to watch him grow up. That it's a shame that you probably won't be able to see him become a young man someday. They'll all see that and want to change it. No need for two young children to suffer. Sympathy draws the crowd in. Either that or being absolutely lethal. Which won't work with a sweet-looking girl like you." Mabel gestures to me.

I glare at her.

"_Looking,_" she says quickly, "I said sweet-_looking."_

"So I just have to be innocent?" I confirm.

"Absolutely. Innocent like an angel." She looks me up and down. "In yellow."

My hands in my lap are visibly shaking, my breaths coming in uneven gasps. The boy from District 2 finishes his interview with Caesar Flickerman, the host, and the girl from District 3 steps up, looking dangerous with her straight blonde hair contrasting sharply with her red silk gown that swishes as she moves – the half covering her torso studded with golden sprinkles and long sleeves that drape down to her knees when she holds her arms down.

Throughout her three minutes of interview time, it is easy to see that she is a dangerous opponent. She takes the Games almost humorously, as if we're all old friends coming together to play Candy Land. But at the same time, she acts as if the glory of winning would be better than anything in the world.

"The glory is all I care about," she tells Caesar now. "It wouldn't matter that I die, it only means anything to me because if I die, I won't win."

Making it clear that whatever she does, she wants to annihilate everyone here.

Then her minutes are up, and the interviews continue. The boy from District 5 plays a funny character, making the audience laugh, which is the only thing that is able to bring me out of my nervous tension and into a slightly cheerful mood. The girl from District 6 talks about her family – her mother and younger brother that died and her father that she supposes wouldn't care one way or another if she lived or died. I can't tell if it's fake or not when she almost bursts out into tears, but keeps a stiff upper lip so the audience doesn't think she's too incapable of holding a weapon at all. The girl from 7 answers things simply, not explaining much about her home life when asked, giving small tidbits of information.

And then I am next, and as the boy from 8 leaves the stage, I am announced. I don't feel like I ever told myself to stand up, but suddenly there I am, crossing the stage, smiling weakly, remembering what my angle is supposed to be, and I sit across from Caesar, with his blue hair, as the audience claps politely. _Let's see how loudly I can make them cheer my name,_ I think to encourage myself. I try to shake the nervousness out of myself so I can focus, clear my head.

The crowd dies down. And then, Caesar is facing me, smiling, as he asks, "Hello, Thyme," he welcomes me, shaking my hand as I sit down.

I give a shy smile and a low wave, letting out a small "Hi."

"So, what do you think of the Capitol? Is it as you expected?" Caesar asks with an easy laugh.

"Well," I start, trying not to freak out. _I'm speaking in front of all of Panem!_ "It's certainly remarkable." _Remarkably ridiculous._

He chuckles again, inviting the crowd to a few small bits of laughter. "It sure is. That's quite a dress you've got on. Who's your stylist?" he inquires.

With another innocent smile, I tell him – as if he really cares – "Her name's Agathe. She's a beautiful designer."

"I can tell, I can tell," he says with another chuckle before moving on. "So, Thyme, anyone you left back home?"

"My family, yes," I tell him in a shy voice, letting my eyes wander to the floor. My fingers lightly flit over the hem of my dress, my knees closed in to make me look almost afraid, but not quite.

"Oh? And who are they? You think the house must be real empty?"

"Of course," I say, trying to make my words come more easily instead of feeling like I'm going to choke on them before I manage to get them out. "My mother and father, and my four-year-old brother."

"Just four, really?"

"Oh, yeah. I feel like a lousy sister, though," I add, urging him to press on and ask why.

"Why ever would you feel that way?" He seems taken aback with surprise at my response.

"Just because…" I shrug a little, making it seem like I'm at a loss for words when I really know what I need to say. _Just say you wish you could be there to watch him grow up. That it's a shame that you probably won't be able to see him become a young man someday._ "Because he might have to grow up without his big sister."

Silence from the crowd. I can almost feel the fallen faces they wear from where I sit.

"Does he know?" Caesar asks gently after a pause. I don't have to ask what he's talking about. I shake my head sadly, letting a lock of my lightly curled hair gently swoop down into my face.

Caesar looks out at the crowd solemnly, as if someone will hold up a sign with step-by-step instructions on how to cheer me up. "Aw, that's too bad," is all he says.

"Well," I say, brushing the curl of hair back behind my ear with obvious feminine-ity, "I guess he'll just have to find out about it someday."

"Someday," he whispers wistfully, echoing my words. "And if you win, what will you say to him? When he's old enough to understand?"

I think for a moment. What would an innocent little girl say? _"If_ I'm lucky enough to return to him… I'll tell him the story of the person that changed me the most in the arena." I scan the crowd for Mabel and quickly find her. "And I think I know who that would be," I say without thinking. "All I have to do is learn her story." She smiles widely at me, pleased by my praise in front of the whole country.

Caesar nods, understanding my deep explanation. "And what do you think makes her so important to you?" he asks.

"She inspires me." And this time, I don't have to lie. "She's smart, beautiful, skilled, and she inspires me." I turn back to Caesar. "And I couldn't have a better role model."

He nods again, and this time I can tell he really means it.

But before he can respond, the buzzer goes off, announcing that my three minutes are over. "Sorry, that's all we have time for – I'm sure plenty of us are on your side, Thyme Willows of District Nine!" And then the crowd is applauding, and I'm beaming shyly, my shoulders closed in and my hands clasped together. Then I stand and exit the stage, glad that those three minutes are over, over, over.

I sit for a short time before the interviews are over and the boy from District 12 is done. Only when Kurt is tugging on my arm do I realize I've been in a daze since I got off the stage.

'You did great, you did great!" Agathe tells us once we're back on out floor.

"You looked great," is all Mabel tells me, but I can tell she was really flattered by my comment on her inspiring me. I wonder if she thinks I was lying or not. I wonder if I _was_ lying or not. It didn't feel like I was lying when I said it.

"How do you think you did?" I ask Kurt, since I was spacing out when he went on.

"I think I did pretty good. I'm working the mysterious kind of angle," he says.

If you didn't know Kurt – the open Kurt that has no secrets – you'd automatically think he's the mysterious type. I wonder how long he'll be able to keep it up if it's so against his nature.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Oh, I think I did okay," I say. This feels weird to me – I've never shared my feelings with anyone besides my father before.

"Yeah? I saw you working the innocent angle. Trying to get sympathy?"

"That's Mabel's plan," I say, turning away from him. "It isn't very original, but she says it'll work best since I'm so young."

"How are you going to do that in the arena? From what I can tell, you aren't really that innocent and sweet," he inquires.

I scowl at him even though he can't see it. "What about you, Mr. Mysterious? How are you going to play that up? Plus, it can't be that hard to look hopeless," I snap.

There's a little pause of silence and I wonder if he's gently laughing. "Well, I don't know. It's the Games – we'll just have to see how it plays out, right?" he says eventually.

"Right," I say, "just the Games."

"And you know I'm on your side. Not that that'll help you very much."

And as soon as he says that, something within me clicks together. _Is he trying to trick me?_ I can't help thinking. He may very well be the one to kill me. _Maybe he'll try to act like a friend, but in the arena, when I find out he's plotting against me, I'll have to face the shock of it, making me more vulnerable._ My jaw sets and my eyes glare, but all I say is, "I know."

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you for reading this far – I know this chapter was long, but I'm glad you liked it if you liked it. :) Anyway, we're almost at the good part, so just wait with me a little longer! I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I do have a deadline, so hopefully that will make me write a little faster! I've been trying to write at least a little every day, and I think that's going pretty well so far! Predictions, anyone? I have BIG PLANS for the arena. :))))**


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

I am full, but I still feel completely empty inside.

I am in a room, underneath the arena. Alone. There is a table and clothes, which I hastily change into – a pair of jeans and a dark grey T-shirt. A lightweight jacket. Combat boots. I'm twitching now, my hands sweating like crazy, and I can't zipper the jacket.

"You need help?" a quiet voice says. And then Mabel appears, zippering my jacket. I know she can tell I'm nervous – who wouldn't be – but I try my best to hide it anyway.

I look up at her. Mabel, my trainer, my mentor, my role model. Soon, she'll be my lifesaver.

She suddenly bends down so her eyes are level with mine. "Listen to me, Thyme," she says, her voice stern. "Don't do anything stupid out there, you hear? Just find food, water, and run. Keep running. Don't try to fight anyone unless you know it's an easy win." I notice how she avoids the word _kill._

I nod quickly, almost getting dizzy. "And remember," she says, "there are people waiting for you back home, aren't there? Who's waiting for you to come home?"

"My father." My voice quavers slightly but otherwise stays stable.

"You remember your father and know that he'd hate to see his little girl suffer out there," she says, her voice rising. "Go out there and make him proud."

There's a short silence before I whisper, "It wouldn't make him proud to see his daughter a killer."

"One minute," an automated voice announces. My heart catches. In one minute, I might die.

"Do you have a token?" Mabel asks.

I nod and point to my neck, where a beaded necklace is knotted in place. "It's from my dad. He says I'll be strong as long as I wear it."

She grips my arms. "And strong you will be."

"Thirty seconds."

Mabel takes a shaky breath. "Come." She guides me to the capsule where I will be inserted into the arena. I stand outside it, looking at her, when it opens, and I step in. "Twenty seconds."

I take a last pleading glance at Mabel and see fear there. Fear for me. I wonder if she sees it reflected in my eyes.

But then the glass seals, and I'm cut off from her. The few seconds of darkness frightens me, searing my nerves even more.

And then I am in the arena, standing on my little circle of safety. I am surprised at what I see.

My circle is on sand. As I look around at the rest of the tributes, they are all on sand, too. Behind me are woods. In front of me is a lake, and at the center of that lake, on a sandbar far out, is the golden Cornucopia.

_Just find food, water, and run, _Mabel had said.

For the first time, I find myself wondering what my father is thinking right now. For the first time, I find myself wondering what my mother is thinking right now, and what she'll feel when I die.

Because in just the time of twenty-four hours, I could be long since dead.

I feel myself finger my necklace, feeling the imaginary strength course through me. It's probably just adrenaline.

"Ten," the announcer speaks in a dead voice. I swallow. "Nine."

"Eight." Eight more seconds and I'll be running for my life.

"Seven." I scan around, seeing Kurt a few capsules to my left. He doesn't look at me.

"Six." I see a few faces I recognize – the fierce District Three Girl, the secretive girl from District Seven about ten capsules to my right."

"Five." Five seconds.

"Four." The countdown to the end of my life.

"Three." I will die at a merciless hand.

"Two." I won't let my father see me suffer.

"One."


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Everything happens all at once.

More than half the tributes dart across the sand and into the lake, splashing and pushing anyone that gets in their way like ferocious animals. I see one boy cry out before he's yanked under the water. The ones that do make it to the Cornucopia fight it out viciously at the bloodbath. The girl from Seven immediately grabs an axe and throws, the blade sticking straight into an older boy's chest. He falls instantly.

I turn and sprint away, running into the woods as fast as I can, not feeling anything but pure force pushing through my body as I run for my life.

After I've run a distance from the Cornucopia, I stumble and trip over something jutting out from the ground. I fall, rolling over on my side before darting upright, my gaze honing in on the object that stopped me.

A piece of wood, maybe three feet in length, sticks out from the dirt. I approach it with caution, scanning the woods around me hectically as I try to yank the wood out. I can't hear anyone approaching, but even so I feel I'm being watched and targeted.

I finally jerk the wood free, and it's a decent weapon – I could knock someone out pretty hard with this. I decide to keep it and I continue running, running, running away.

With my new plank of wood, I make my way through the forest, praying that no one will find me. I am only twelve. I will be slaughtered easily by a more experienced opponent.

I stop, the burned adrenaline slushy through my veins. I find a rock and sit on it, but not before scanning it suspiciously for spikes or poisonous slime that might burn through my pants with acid.

Just then I hear a twig snap. I leap off my rock and hold my wood out, trying to look intimidating to the eye of the intruder coming. When I see it was just a chipmunk, I try to relax. _Come on, Thyme, _I tell myself, _it was just a chipmunk._

I try to ignore the fact that that chipmunk might suddenly go rabid and tear my throat out.

I am in the Games. I am in the Games. _I am in the Games._

I try to loosen up, clear my head. _What to I do now?_ I think. _A tree._ I can climb trees, thanks to the pre-Game training. If someone actually does come along, I can climb at tree and hopefully go unnoticed.

I'm making my way toward a tree, staring at the ground but twitching my head up and around ever time I hear a noise – hear a bird chirp, an animal scuttle across the ground, anything. _A human would make more noise, walking. More consistent, louder noise. _

A twig snaps then, and I tense, telling myself to stop over reacting. But then the noise doesn't just stop, like the scuttling of an animal, or the hopping of a bird. No, it's different. More consistent. Louder.

Everything snaps together in my mind. And then, I'm sprinting lightly across the ground, plank in hand, and I'm at the base of a large tree. I attempt to conceal the plank lightly before scurrying up the tree, adrenaline pouring through me again.

I must be twenty feet up, not yet to the branches, just clinging to the bark, when a boy comes into view below me. He stops, and my heart pounds more loudly than ever as he scans the area. _Will he see me?_ I'm surprised he doesn't hear my heartbeat. It's like the beat of my life right now, the rhythm to my part in these games.

The boy sits down now, about three yards from the base of my tree, small from the height I am at. I am gladder than I've ever been that I have no fear of heights like my mom did. _Does,_ I remind myself. _Does._

Then the boy lays out his things – a green backpack, a sleeping bag. He climbs into it and curls up. I notice just then the fading sun in the sky.

My hands are starting to hurt from their intense grip on the bark, and my legs are getting tired from holding me there for so long. I don't care. I use this opportunity to think instead.

I am weapon-less. I have nothing except for a plank of wood, which is down there. But sensing from the boy's carelessness, not even bothering to look up, where I plainly dangle by the side of the tree, I can tell that he will not see my wood unless he is looking for it. I wonder if he's so stupid to build a fire – that would be the only reason I can think of to use wood.

But does he have anything? I look down curiously at that green backpack of his – does it have anything of value in it?

I wonder if he has a weapon. I could use a weapon. I knife, a sword, a mace, anything. I can't use half those things, of course, but it would be nice to have something, some sort of tool, even if its only purpose was to make me look more frightening.

I decide he must have something. I can tell by the steady rise and fall of his chest that he has fallen asleep.

My fingers find their way to my neck, where they finger the necklace there. At once, I feel imaginary strength coursing through me. And then, as quietly as I can, I inch down the tree, thinking about how good a show this must be for the audience. I try not to let myself imagine the stiff look my father's face must have on it right now.

After painstaking minutes, I am finally on the ground. The boy is still asleep. I recognize him as the District10 boy. I wonder if District 10 thinks I am going to murder him.

I leap from rock to rock, knowing that will make my steps lighter than if I tread on the leaves and through the grass.

The backpack is just below me, the boy facing me. If he opened his eyes right now, I wonder what he'd do. What I'd do.

I reach down to the backpack, all the while watching the boy with the cautious eyes of a hunting cat.

Reaching a hand inside the pack, I risk a glance at its contents, just seeing the hilt of a sharp knife. _Score,_ I'm thinking to myself as I feel my hand grip the hilt and silently pull it from its place in the pack. I don't want to take the entire thing because I don't know its contents and don't want to wake the boy. I wonder what his name might be.

With the knife in hand, I slowly hop over the rocks back to the tree. I scurry up the trunk again, this time making it to the branches. The trip takes longer because I am holding the knife. By the time I sit myself down on the thickest branch, I am exhausted and shaky, each breath coming in short gasps. I look back down at the boy. He is asleep, still. It's easy to tell that he will not survive long, even if he did survive the bloodbath. He is alone, except for me, his watcher, like a spying bird perched in her nest ready to jab at him without him realizing it. He is vulnerable – even I could kill him simply by dropping this knife down to the ground, down thirty feet, impaling him. It wouldn't be hard.

But when I reach out the knife into the space in front of me, knowing with a slight throw I could end the boy's life, I know I can't do it. With the growing moonlight glinting against the blade, throwing dim glows into the tree and into my eyes, I can tell I can't do this. I will not be a valuable ally to anyone, because I cannot kill.

Yet I just disarmed this boy. In a way, I am killing him.

Because when that girl from District 3 comes, or some other over-powering predator, he will wake up without a knife, and he will lose, if he even had a chance at all to begin with.

All because of his mindful little watcher perched in this tree, wishing she could kill but knowing she can't, just can't bring herself to end an innocent life.

And the boy lives another night.

I can't sleep. Maybe it's the thought of all the people of Panem watching me, or the sleeping boy on the ground below me, or the adrenaline burning through me or the fear of my hunters, but I can't sleep.

Instead, while I wait for sleep to come, I study my new knife. It has a plain hilt – just good for grip – and its blade shimmers when I turn it. It's a good killing knife. But I will not use it to kill.

Finally, I decide I can't afford to go for sleepless nights – I'll exhaust myself and my immune system will weaken. I know I need sleep, but I'm just so restless, flinching at every noise, almost falling off my tree, jumpstarting my heart, which does nothing to help me calm down. I wish I could be on the ground, where I couldn't fall from great heights.

Almost, angrily, I turn and jam the knife into the bark behind me so it stays there. Not too deep so I can't get it out, but deep enough so it won't fall out. I close my eyes, telling myself to sleep, but still it's impossible.

_Just close your eyes._ The words suddenly pop into my head, and then I almost smile. I look off at the moon, thinking for a second that perhaps my father is gazing at the same moon before remembering that it's all a projection on the roof of the dome of the arena. The cannons have fired – ten died today at the Cornucopia. I shiver knowing that I almost made it eleven to die.

I try to force the thoughts from my mind, tying my hair back into the loose side ponytail I wear always. _Just close your eyes._ And I do. And as I do, the lyrics begin to flood through me.

_I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go. When all those shadows almost killed your light. I remember you said don't leave me here alone. But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight._

And then my lips are forming all the words, and I'm wordlessly singing my father's lullaby.

_ Just close your eyes. The sun is going down. You'll be all right. No one can hurt you now. Come morning light. You and I'll be safe and sound._

_ Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold on to this lullaby. Even when the music's gone. Gone._

_ Just close your eyes. The sun is going down. You'll be all right. No one can hurt you now. Come morning light. You and I'll be safe and sound._

I want to hum but know so badly I can't. Can't risk being caught, being seen. So instead I look into the moon again, trying to see past its fake-ness to the real image that projects into the dome of the sky.

_Just close your eyes. You'll be all right. Come morning light. You and I'll be safe and sound._

Disclaimer Forever: I do not own "Safe & Sound" or _The Hunger Games_.

**Please reviewreviewreviewreview!**


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

When my eyes flutter open, it only takes a second to remember where I am.

I am glad I am able to handle shock easily – otherwise, I would have fallen off the tree. At first, as my eyes open, there's a stiffness on my cheeks; I rub at them hastily to find them slick. _Am I bleeding?_ I panic. But when my hands draw away the same color as before, I know I was not attacked in my sleep.

It takes a moment, in my groggy morning state, to realize the stains on my cheeks are tears. I should have known better than to fall asleep to my father's lullaby.

Only then does it really come down on me. I miss my father. I miss him a _lot_.

I peer down at the ground then, to find the District 10 boy still there. He seems to be asleep. _What time is it?_ I wonder.

A glance at the sun, hardly risen, tells me it's not too late that I should hate myself for oversleeping. Trying to shake myself awake so I can focus, I get to a crouch, slowly and swiftly, still up in the tree. The knife is still stuck in the tree; I yank it out without too much trouble, though my heart begins to pound when I jerk a little backwards and my branch shakes.

I scan the ground for other tributes and find none. If I am going to make a move, now is the time to do it.

A plan formulating in my head, I reach a hand to my necklace and inch down the tree at the angle opposite from the boy's camp, so if he woke up, he wouldn't see me. It shouldn't matter anyway, since I have his only weapon and he doesn't see the wood, but the stealth of surprise is my strength.

By the time I reach the bottom, the boy has awoken. He sits up, blinking away sleep. My heartbeat taking off, I press my back to the tree. He doesn't see me.

Peering around the side of the tree, I can watch him without him noticing. I watch as he slowly makes his way toward his green backpack, tugging it toward himself. He fingers his way through it, either looking for something or checking to see that everything's there.

_But everything isn't,_ I think to myself, looking down at the knife in my hand.

_The knife in my hand._

And suddenly, it's all clear – he has a backpack, full of supplies. His is unarmed. I have his knife. He has things I need.

His back still turned to me, he seems to hesitate. He has figured out that the knife is missing. He paws through it more frantically now, and I imagine the look that would cross his face if he found it there. But he never will. Because I have it, and I am hiding, and he doesn't see me.

I take a deep breath, then raise my right arm, the knife in my hand. I take aim, waiting for just the right moment, which comes when he stops looking through his bag and looks around, a suspicious look on his face, as he sees the side of my frame, just barely visible on the side of the tree.

That's when I throw.

The knife whizzes through the air, slicing it like I hope it slices just what I aimed it at. The boy doesn't have enough time to react or even move. And then the knife's sharp point is driving through the fabric of his shirt just above his shoulder and pulling him backward into a tree, where the knife's blade sticks in, hilt-deep, into the side of its trunk.

The boy's face is panicked, surprised, and scared as I dart out from behind the tree. He scrambles to grip the hilt sticking out from just above his shoulder, pulling at it. I want to smile at myself in triumph as he doesn't succeed and he is stuck. I have him now.

But I do not attack. Instead, I fly over to his backpack where it lays on the ground. I savagely open it as wide as it can go and scan over its contents. The boy makes frustrated noises by the tree, panicking.

In the green backpack is a canteen, empty; a vial – iodine, I recall; a long length of thick rope; a flashlight; and a zip lock bag.

I fish out the long rope, trying not to stumble over myself, and I hurry over to the boy. With a small portion of the knife I find still visible between the boy's shirt and the tree, I pull, back and forth, the rope along the blade, strength coursing through me. Once I'm done cutting, I have about a foot and a half of rope severed from the rest. I use that to pull the struggling boy's hands back around the trunk and tie his wrists together. Then, I come back to the front and yank, yank, yank at the knife in the tree until it comes loose. The boy, still panic-stricken, doesn't know what to think.

And with that, I dart back to his backpack with the rope, shove it in, zipper it up, and sprint back into the woods, leaving the boy behind me, tied up to a tree as he waits for a more vicious opponent to cross his path and finish him off.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The river at my feet runs cold water downhill, and in it I hold the water bottle I took from the boy from District 10. It fills quickly, and I squirt a few drops of iodine into it. From memory, I remember I have to wait half an hour for the chemical to take effect.

But I'm thirsty. I've never been thirstier.

My throat burning, I almost swallow the water before I'm supposed to, but I restrain myself with difficulty. _This would be a shameful way to go,_ I think, _after what I did to that boy – it would be almost embarrassing to die from lack of patience._

I figure I must only be halfway done with waiting.

But then there's a scurry, and the bushes beside me rustle. Not quietly, either. Immediately I tense, forgetting about the water, and I stand in a fighting stance, knife in hand, ready for intruders, my eyes locked on the bush.

And sure enough, there is someone there.

A boy, about fifteen years old, with dark hair emerges from the bush with his hands up. "Whoa," he says when he sees the knife firm in my hand. "Can you put that down?"

I don't know how he knows what he's saying. This is the Hunger Games. Why in the world would I drop my weapon?

Then I recognize him – he's the District 5 boy, the funny one during the interviews. Is he trying to get a laugh?

"Who are you?" I say, letting my voice shake as I remember the interview angle I should be trying to pose as. Now that I have interaction with someone, maybe I can play it up a little more. It's easier to let my voice shake and say it's an act when it probably would, anyway. I can tell I wouldn't have been able to keep it steady by the jagged beat of my heart.

"The knife?" he says before answering my question. He looks at the blade pointedly.

"A-answer me, first," I stutter, letting myself sound more innocent.

"I'm Lance, District 5. Chill, girl. I'm not going to hurt you."

I lower my knife to make him believe that I'm stupid but I never let my guard down. "You're not?" I ask, confused, which is not an act this time.

"No. Why would I?"

"Because… we're in the Hunger Games?" I wonder if that got a laugh out of the audience.

"Yes, but I saw you throw that knife. I know what you can do. You think I want to mess with that arm?" He gestures to the hand with the knife in it.

"You… you saw that?" Part of me feels like I would have known if I was being watched. But I am being watched, all the time, every day. By every citizen of Panem.

"Yeah. I just watched the end, right when the kid got a knife thrown into his shirt." The way he says it makes it sound like watching a TV show.

"Well," I say, a smirk playing at my lips, hiding my tension. I watch the boy warily, preparing for him to whip out a sword or slice me with a ninja star, or –

"Hey, you want to make a team?"

This catches me off guard and I'm taken aback. "What?" I say. "You mean, like an alliance?"

"Yeah," he tells me. "You're amazing with that arm – I bet we could be a pretty powerful force together."

"Well, what can you do?"

_"I_ can navigate," he tells me confidently. "You're looking at the kind of the jungle, master of the seas, conqueror of lands, lord of –"

"Okay," I interrupt his tirade by saying. Playing as the stupid little girl, I say, "I'm in."

"Really?" He looks overjoyed. "Awesome!"

"But what's or plan of action?" I inquire. "What are we going to do?"

"Well," he begins, digging around in a backpack on his shoulders. My grip on my knife tightens, and I ready myself for a fierce and bloody battle as I wait for him to pull out a knife or some other weapon like a –

Water bottle. "I thought you might want this."

The cold water sloshing around in the canteen almost makes me drool. But I don't – instead, I look at him suspiciously.

Guessing what I'm thinking, he takes a swing of the water and says, "See? It's fine."

I guess he's right. After all, poison can't be a bad way to go, can it? It's quicker than being stabbed to death, after all.

I accept the water from him and drink immediately, savoring the coldness of it as it spreads through my body.

"Thanks," I say once I've had my share. "What's next?"

"What do you have in your pack?" he asks, emptying out the contents of his: a sleeping bag, iodine, a flashlight, a bottle opener. He puts his canteen of water next to these things.

I tell him but don't empty out my things.

"Okay," he says, "so no food?"

"No food," I tell him in dismay.

"We'd better start hunting and gathering, then. Do you hunt?"

I think back to my training. "No, but I can gather and identify plants pretty well."

He seems almost disappointed for a second. "That's alright. I'm the same."

"So, where should we go, O conqueror of lands?"

He smiles at my lighthearted joke. "Follow me."

The next few hours are spent in the woods, darting through the trees to the best gathering spots, hiding whenever we hear a noise. Lance isn't unlike me, in that he flinches at every noise.

We're stripping a bush of its raspberries now, barely talking until Lance brings up his sister back home. "She's eighteen, legible for the games, but she couldn't volunteer for me. I think she wanted to."

"That's sweet," I say.

"What about you?" he asks me.

"I have a brother. He's too young to understand what's happening." I look away. "Like right now, he's probably saying to my parents, 'Hey, look – Thyme's on TV!'"

He laughs and I smile, even though I don't find what I'm saying funny in any way. "Here, give me your berries." He holds out his hand and I drop the berries into it, where he puts them away in the zip lock bag I gave him. "These will be delicious," he says, zipping the bag up and putting it in his backpack. I smile.

Lance is a good kid. He's funny – actually funny, not faking like I am – and silence isn't awkward around him. He doesn't press for details, and doesn't seem suspicious of me at all. But something tells me to stay wary around him. In the Games, no one can be trusted.

It's that night, as we eat our raspberries, washed with water, that we something silver falls from the sky. At first, I think it's a bomb and I flinch away, but then I recognize it.

"A parachute!" I say excitedly.

Lance approaches it, finding out what's in it. "What is it?" I ask eagerly, leaning forward.

He reaches inside a box and pulls out his hand, holding up a piece of paper. "A drawing," he tells me.

_A drawing? _"Let me see," I say, reaching out a hand. He places it in my hand and I study it closely.

It's a hand. Not just a hand, but a fist. Automatically, I cringe inside. Out on the grain fields, we use the fist as a signal to tell others there's danger approaching.

_Danger approaching,_ I repeat to myself. And then something clicks inside my head.

The audience has seen things I haven't. Pictures of every other tribute in this arena I don't know about. They know their whereabouts. I don't. _Mabel. _She must have sent this. A sign, a sign to tell me that danger is coming.

"Do you know what it is?" Lance asks, snapping me back to reality and out of my thoughts.

"No," I tell him, "I have no idea what this means."


	14. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13**_

"This way."

I follow Lance through some bushes, past a clearing, and into the dense woods again. "We should be safe around-"

I take a step and suddenly I'm being pulled up and around, trying not to scream – when my eyes open I see Lance's shoes.

"Thyme?" I hear him say.

"What the-"

Then a thud sounds and I see a new pair of feet. Lance gasps. "Finally, I've caught something good," an unfamiliar voice sneers.

Then I hear a swishing sound – the kind of sound a blade would make when pulled out of its sheath.

Lance seems to yelp before I see his feet steady as he crouches into a fighting stance. Then blades are clashing.

The blood rushing to my head, my heart pounding fast, I dangle upside-down, realizing I stepped right into a snare. _Stupid, _I think, _stupid, stupid, stupid!_

I have to find a way out of this. When I look down – or up, really – to where the rope hangs on a tree, branch, I am then able to grope along my belt for my knife. I try to pull myself up to the rope around my foot. With struggle, I finally manage to get myself into an awkward position, one hand tight around my ankle and the other tight on the blade, hanging three feet off the ground.

I saw at the rope with my knife, and it snaps quickly, making me fall to the ground with an "Oof!"

Lance turns, just a little, averting his attention from the attacker, when he hears my noise. At that point, the boy – a pale-haired, light-skinned boy from District 4 – throws a dagger at him that just skims his arm. Lance lets out a surprised noise and moves back.

But me, with my knife in hand, I don't stay still. As the District 4 boy advances toward Lance, I take my chance while I can and run at him with my knife, sliding low on my knees and slashing his leg once, just as he leans in to put his weight on it.

He lets out a hiss through his teeth as he steps on his injured leg, and he falls to the ground. He spins around to see me, and he throws a dagger at me. I duck just in time and the dagger instead lodges itself in a tree.

Then Lance lunges at the boy, descending on him with his knife. I turn away, but still hear the boy's scream and the cannon that soon sounds. I draw in a shaky breath.

To distract myself, even a little, I turn to the tree with the boy's knife sticking out of it and tug it free. When I turn around, Lance is looking grimly at the boy crumpled on the ground. "We should clear out," he says, "so the hovercraft can come get him."

We take the boy's supplies and weapons and leave the site with haste. I know I shouldn't feel bad – that boy wanted to kill me – but I was there as a human being just died. I can't bring myself to feel glad for hiss harsh passing.

Lance, now a murderer, continues on in front of me. Once we put a good distance between us and the dead boy, he stops and faces me. "Give me the dagger," he orders.

I look down at the boy's dagger in my hand – the one I pulled out of the tree. I had forgotten I was still holding it. "Why?" I ask.

"Just give it to me." Something in his voice has changed. A new… cruelty.

"I think I should have the daggers," I order right back. "After all, I have the aim, don't I?"

He seems frustrated and stressed. "Thyme, come on," he says, his voice now having a small pleading edge to it. "I can handle them better than you can."

"What, because I'm twelve?" I question. "And a girl? You think I can't handle some weapons? I've had training. I can carry things."

"Please, Thyme, trust me that it will make things much easier if I carry the weapons."

"Then tell me why that's necessary. Easier how?"

He seems aggravated but unwilling to give up. "Thyme, give me the daggers."

"I'm perfectly capable of holding onto them myself."

He rolls back his head, as if saying to God, _why won't she just cooperate?_ but I don't say anything.

"Give me the rest," I say quietly, holding a hand out and motioning to him, curling in my fingers in an impatient gesture saying, _Come on, now._

He reluctantly hands over the rest of the weapons. I put them securely in my backpack, which I zipper up tightly.

When I look back at Lance's face, he's staring at my backpack, a look of unsatisfaction, disapproval, and uneasiness. "Come on. We should get going. Make camp for the night."

We find a good tree to sleep under. Lance offers me his sleeping bag, apologizing for his persistence before with the weapons. "I was being silly," he says.

The darkness falling, I curl up in my sleeping bag, my back facing Lance's, who lays about six feet away from me on the hard ground. Every few minutes before I fall asleep, I find myself glancing back over to him out of the corner of my eye. I can't help but be suspicious. Because now I know that he has a secret. Something he didn't show me when he first showed me the contents of his bag. Something he didn't tell me about.

Because that thing he's hiding, that thing he didn't want to show me, was a knife.

**Author's Note:**

**Predictions, Anyone?**


	15. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14**_

I wake to a slight noise skimming the surface of the land nearby me. A scuttle, a light one. A sneaky one. Like one you might use when you pass by someone sleeping, just slower.

I don't open my eyes, just pretend I'm still asleep, keeping my breaths deep and even. Part of me knows, automatically, what is happening, knows I should have expected it, and hates myself for not doing anything about it once I figured it out. The fist Mabel sent me. The resistance to my keeping the knives. The knife he hid.

The scuttling stops and there's a hesitation. I can almost hear the sound of the blade being raised, the quiet and stillness of the moment making my heart hammer even louder in my chest.

Then, knowing what's about to happen, I roll to the side, out of the sleeping bag, and dash to my feet, the backpack already on my back just like how it was when I fell asleep. And sure enough, when I open my eyes, Lance is there, a sneer on his face, the hidden knife raised above his head, glaring at me because I escaped his trap before he could bring the knife down.

There is that moment of stillness – him glaring at me, my eyes honing in on his altered sneer and his blade.

And then it ends, and I'm turning fast, nearly tripping over myself in a frantic haste. And now I'm running, running, running, adrenaline surging through my veins as I run for my life, just like I did at the end of that countdown on my first day. I can hear his steps behind me as he chases me, shouting, "Come back here, you little runt!"

A small part of me wonders who Lance really was, before the Games, or if it wasn't the Games at all that changed him into a murdering, backstabbing, traitor of a fifteen-year-old boy.

It's too hard to focus on everything at once. The roots under my feet, the trees in front of me, the boy chasing me. I know it's only a matter of time before I trip and fall over something and he runs me through with that knife of his.

A plan formulating in my mind, I start to dodge and weave through trees, trying to make my path complicated. I hear his footsteps fading behind me, but I know he'll catch up.

In the short moments I have to spare, I fumble with the zipper on the backpack and pull out three of the boy's daggers. I re-zip the bag and throw it over my shoulders before launching off again through the trees.

I hear Lance's steps again as he catches up to me from my stop. Making sure there's a clear path ahead of me, I turn and flick a dagger back toward him – either he'll be hit with it or he'll stop to pick it up, in which time I can climb up a tree.

I'm filled with sick pleasure when the dagger hits his right leg. He falls, crumpling to the ground, holding his leg with a pained sound. And with that, I leave him, not going back to him, not calling anything to him behind me as I leave the boy who betrayed me.

**Author's Note:**

**Anyone surprised?**


	16. Chapter 15

_**C **_

I'm surprised I don't feel anything at Lance's betrayal. Not anything except anger, anyway. I became suspicious when Mabel sent me the drawing of the fist. It was smart of her – it was a code he wouldn't understand. Then my suspicions rose when he suddenly had a blade to fight the District 4 boy with. I was almost sure when he wanted the daggers. The more unarmed I would be, the better, in his case.

But I got away, and I wounded him. In the leg. Now he won't be able to move – to get food, or water, or shelter form other tributes. He is going to die. A false sense of justice rises within me.

Now I stumble along, my nerves still tense and jumpy from the sudden attack that woke me early. I decide to climb a tree, thinking that do the best to ensure no other tribute could find me during my out-of-sorts state.

Once up in a tree, I have a sense of safety. I hum my dad's lullaby to myself since I didn't get the chance to last night.

I'm halfway through when I stop abruptly. I do this because something catches my eye – something drifting down from the sky. _A parachute._

_Is she going to give me another hint?_ I wonder to myself as I catch it and open it up. Inside is a small package wrapped in glittering wrapping paper with a tag with my name on it: _Thyme Willows_.

Curious, I unwrap the paper and find a box. Inside the boy is a letter. _Thyme,_ it begins.

_Here's something sent from your family – they wanted you to have it._

My heart leaps in my chest at the thought of my family and I almost drop the box. I quickly dig around under some tissue paper to find something thin and hard.

It's a chain. Golden. On the end is a piece of gold, crafted expertly, in the shape of an opened hand.

It's small, about an inch in diameter, but it almost makes me cry. My father, maybe even my mother, sent me a symbol of safety. Because while the fist warns danger, the opened hand marks safety.

I smile and tell myself I won't cry. My father sent this all the way to Mabel in the Capitol so it could be delivered to me.

I slip the chain around my neck. It's loose, and I stuff it under my shirt's neckline so I know I won't lose it. Plus, it keeps it down, making it easier to run.

The day is just starting, even though so much has happened already. And it's my birthday. I turn thirteen in the arena.

I hope I won't die today. That would just be upsetting to die on my own birthday. It was sweet of Mabel to send me that present. I guess she really knew me.

_Knows me,_ I remind myself. I'm not dead just yet.

For the first time in my life, I'm thirteen today and I feel it. I don't feel twelve anymore. I'm not the girl that was called in the reaping in District 9 anymore. Now, I am Thyme Willows, the girl that will win the Hunger Games as the thirteen-year-old tribute.

I shut down my thoughts before they can imagine more victories and glory. I should know I cannot win. Nothing is different – I'm still from District 9 and I'm still no better than I was yesterday.

But I did just save my own skin from someone I thought I could trust.

I hear something below me. The morning sun peering over the edge of the trees glints off the ground illuminating a figure that runs, stumbling, into my line of sight.

A flare of recognition fires within me. She's the girl – the blonde girl from District 7.

She throws down her backpack, only searching her surroundings for other tributes by swinging her head this way and that, her messy, wavy blonde hair swishing with her movements. She opens up her backpack quickly and takes out a canteen of water, which she takes a big gulp from, throwing her head back as if she'll never get enough water. She looks pretty battered, with her hair so knotted like that and her clothes torn at and bloody.

After her gulp of water, she scans the area to check for predators. But she doesn't look up, and she doesn't see me.

_What do I do?_ I realize I'm holding my breath with anxiety. I know who she is. She's a real threat. She's tough and courageous and vicious. I know who I'm up against.

If I wait until nightfall, I might be able to sneak past her and run away. But that's a farfetched hope. She could be very alert and hear me. I try to block the images of all the ways she could kill me that flood through my mind, wincing.

The girl is now emptying her bag, unloading an axe, a knife, and a rope. She puts the knife in her belt and ties the rope to one tree and then another, making a string between the two. Then, she takes off her shoes and leaves them out to dry. It's then I notice that she's wet.

She squeezes out her hair, water seeping out from her fingers. She curses lightly and wipes her hands on her jeans. Then she takes her shirt off – she has a white camisole underneath. She wrings her shirt out and throws it over the rope, making a clothes line. She sits, cross-legged, at her backpack and takes out some berries. She inspects them each before scarfing them down.

_Berries._ I realize I haven't eaten since yesterday, and the rest of the berries we collected were put _in Lance's bag. _That kid never stopped planning, did he.

I should go gathering, and the sight of the girl eating those berries makes my stomach ache. As soon as she leaves, I will sneak down to get some food.

The girl doesn't leave until noon, when she gets her dry shirt and boots and leaves. She brings her axe and knife with her, so I assume she's gone hunting.

It is then that I slip down the tree, darting away without looking back. I've taken my things with me, so that if something happens and I can't go back, I'll have everything I need.

It takes a long time for me to make any progress. Lance was good to have because he knew, somehow, where things were. He had always led me to the best raspberry patches, or the sweetest grape vines. But now that I am alone, I have nothing.

I spend the better part of the day looking. Every time I think I find something promising, the berries on them are no longer fresh and I will not be eating those. Sometimes, they've already been stripped of their fruits.

It isn't until three hours later that I stumble upon a miracle.

Three blueberry bushes, perfectly perfect and fresh and sweet, grow in a small clearing. The second one passes my lips, I know that this will be where I will be eating from for a while. I gather a handful and put them in my bag. For some reason, I make my way back to the tree above the blonde girl's camp. I'm not sure why – it would be smarter to clear out while I can. But when I think about it, the blueberries aren't far from the tree at all – I had just been wandering around for too long before I found them.

When I reach the bottom of my tree, the girl hasn't returned yet. I suppose she hasn't hunted until she got involved with the Games. But when I'm up in the tree, she returns, a limp form in her hands. She throws it down and begins to prepare it. Turkey, I guess.

I watch as she eats, learning the way she guts the animal and plucks its feathers before eating it. I watch for a long time, all the way until she's done. I figure the whole time she did that process, she was starving hungry, because when she's done with the preparation, she eats the thing so fast she probably gets a stomachache. It would be a lot better for her if she gathered berries, instead. Maybe she doesn't identify well and she knows she might get killed by eating the wrong ones.

The rest of the day, I watch her, studying the way she moves, the way she behaves, the way she spends the days, flinching at every sound. This convinces me that I will not be able to slip away if I want to during the night while she sleeps without taking an enormous risk by doing so.

I sleep, singing my father's lullaby in my head as I doze off when the sun goes down. The girl also sleeps, restlessly, below me. Somehow I'm almost glad she's there, as if I have a friend, even though I know she doesn't know I'm here.

Maybe Dad was right. I have good fortune. I have a chance. And now, I am safe.

**Author's Note:**

**This chapter is special because I wrote it specifically on my birthday, the day I turn thirteen myself. Thyme, more or less, is me, and so I decided to write the chapter when it's her birthday on the same day that it's my birthday. So I hope I made it somewhat more realistic than if it was written on any other day, and thank you for reading! :)**


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The girl has been gone for five hours. Was she killed?

I consider the possibility as I wait in my tree for her to come back. But I have seen the animals she usually brings back to her camp and I know that she can take the others on with that axe she has. She couldn't be dead. No cannon has fired yet to signal me. Is she almost dead? In a fight right now?

But I know it wouldn't last too long. She'll come back. Maybe it's just not a good hunting day.

Just then, the District 7 girl comes back. The knife is in her belt, her clothes torn and smeared with dirt, the axe at her side. On her back, she carries three large chunks of meat – perhaps more turkeys.

I gawk at the massive load. So _that's_ what she's been doing.

I watch as she guts and plucks the animals. She leaves for a little while, bringing wood with her, making me think she's going to build a fire somewhere far from her camp.

When she returns later, she has three cooked, plucked, and gutted turkeys. The sight of them makes my mouth water after living off berries since I was in the Capitol.

Then she does something odd. She removes her shirt, exposing the camisole she has underneath, and places the shirt under my tree. She places one of the three slabs of meat on top. She searches for a stick; when she finds one, she seems to pencil in letters next to the meat. Then, she looks around once and leaves, darting away into the trees.

I stare down at the shirt and meat. It could be poisoned – I don't know what she did with it before when she cooked it, but the scent of it is almost too much to bear.

I squirm down the tree and approach the meat with caution. I see faint markings etched into the dirt beside the shirt. I look into the woods, seeing the girl has indeed left. I peer over at the letters to see what it reads.

_For you_ is written in angular capitals. _She can't mean me,_ I think. But then I see the open hand drawn in the dirt below the words and I know three things.

One, the girl knows I'm here.

Two, the girl prepared meat for me.

Three, she wants me to take it.

With a snap decision, I take the meat, leaving the shirt, and crawl back up the tree. A few minutes later, as I start to chew the meat off the bone in silence, the girl returns.

She peers her head around a tree and emerges when she sees no one there. I see her smile when her gaze falls on the shirt, all by itself, at the base of my tree. She collects it and places it down before eating her own meat.

When she leaves again, I immediately climb down from the tree, turning to the clearing with the blueberry bushes. I gather as many as I can possibly carry and take them back to the girl's camp. Hesitantly, I reach over and take her shirt. I place it next to her camp and put half the berries on it. Then, I find a stick and draw an opened hand in the dirt beside it. Flocking toward my tree, the remaining berries in hand, I am excited for what she'll do when she finds it.

Sure enough, she comes back before long. She doesn't seem to have retrieved anything – all that she carries is her axe, which she had when she left. She immediately sees the berries on her shirt and she smiles widely as she approaches them. She sits cross-legged next to her shirt, sees my message in the dirt and eats the berries, seemingly without a care. While she eats hers, I eat my own.

She is done before I am. The sun is setting over the trees, its light glinting magically through the leaves, illuminating them to brilliant greens. The District 7 girl is lying on her back, staring up at the melting day's sky. Suddenly, she says, "You can come down, you know."

I feel myself starting to sweat as every muscle in my body tenses. I've never heard her voice before – it's feminine, but it has its roughness to it.

She sits up when she hears no reply. "I said you can come down."

_Is she trying to trick me?_ I'm not stupid. I know what happened when Lance fooled me. She could be trying to bait me in, make me believe she's all right when she really wants to kill me.

She frowns when she hears nothing. Then she curls up on the ground, and before long, she is sleeping.

I decide it is time. If I'm going to try to get out of here, now is my chance. If I do wake her up, she wouldn't kill me – she'd probably think I'll be coming back soon and if she's really trying to trick me, she wouldn't kill me so soon.

I gather my things in my backpack and throw it over my shoulder. Then, quietly, I make my way down the trunk of the tree for the last time.

At the base of the tree, I am careful, stepping only on rocks so as not to make too much sound. The girl is still sleeping when I look back, her breaths even and deep.

_I'm going to get away,_ I think to myself. But my hands are shaking and my nerves won't calm down.

Concentrating on the ground, I continue to make my way farther into the woods, careful, careful, careful…

And then I freeze abruptly, my muscles tensing tighter. I turn my head slowly, as if going to fast will make noise. And sure enough, when my eyes fall on the girl's camp, they lock on her staring eyes.

She sits with her shoulders back, leaning on her hands. One knee is up – a restful position. She found me. She has spotted me. She will kill me.

But she doesn't move. Her axe, a few feet away, stays there. She doesn't move to the knife on her belt. She just looks at me, her messy blonde hair framing her face, without reaching toward a weapon.

But my hand flies to my belt nevertheless, and suddenly, the knife is in my hand, and my arm is arched to throw it. But still, she doesn't move.

We stare at each other, her relaxed stance casual and my senses alert. I wait for her to move, but the only thing she does it arch a brow.

"I'm not going to throw anything at you," she tells me calmly, almost reading my thoughts. "You can put that down." She gestures with her head to the knife in my hand.

But my hand doesn't move. After Lance, I will not let my guard down until I am sure she will never hurt me.

She rolls her eyes and lies down on her back, flat on the ground, as if trying to prove a point. "Throw it if you'd like," she says casually.

I'm wondering what to do, what her plan is, when I know I cannot kill her if I tried. It's one thing to kill someone innocent, but another to kill someone innocent that helped you.

"You're from Nine, right?" the girl suddenly asks. "Doesn't this mean safety?" She holds up an open hand. When I don't answer, she looks back at my face. "Doesn't it?"

I nod numbly. How else am I supposed to react?

She sits up straight. "You're pale," she states simply. Immediately, I look down at myself, as if I'll see the paleness on the rest of me. I am just surprised my sudden fear is so blatantly obvious. "You're afraid of me."

My heart hammers in my chest and I don't say anything.

"How old are you?" the girl asks.

"Thirteen." I try to put some aggression in my voice but I can't make it work.

She stands up, and my grip tightens on the knife. I step back. She puts her hands up. "I'm from District Seven," she tells me lightly. "My name is Adalee."

"How old are you?" I ask quickly.

"I'm fourteen," she says, "but I could have sworn you were twelve."

I'm breathing very fast. The girl – Adalee – seems too calm. "I was. Yesterday was my birthday."

She cringes, showing the first sign of unpleasant emotion. "Ouch," she says, "a birthday in the arena."

I don't bother nodding. But then, she reaches out her hand for a shake. "Hey," she says, "you seem like a pretty cool kid. Want to be allies?"

I instantly back up. Lance was able to fool me, but it will not happen again. "You know I can use this knife, right?"

She seems taken aback. "Of course."

I wonder if it'd be my hugest mistake if I shook her hand right now. It probably would be. This girl seems clever and decisive. Dangerous. Deadly. She would be able to kill me. But still, I find myself reaching out a hand and taking hers. She shakes.

"Allies," she confirms. She wears a smile on her face – one that looks like she's really glad I agreed to join her.

"Allies," I repeat, hoping, just hoping, I'm not doomed quite just yet.

**Author's Note: tell me what you think! Predictions, anyone? Yes?**


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Adalee sleeps about twelve feet away from me that night. It was my decision to stay far away, near the bottom of my tree in case something happens. I close my eyes and think my father's lullaby to myself, not saying anything aloud.

Does Adalee have a plan? Is she like Lance? Does she know that he tried to kill me with a fake alliance? Does she think I'll be useful? Or just a weak player she can use as a pawn?"

But maybe the worst part is that I know that her alliance with me makes the Games a lot more bearable for myself. Her being able to hunt so well gives me a part in the meal, and I like that. Eating meat is better than living off berries all the time.

The morning comes before I know it and I wake up, wondering when in my thoughts I began to fall asleep. Adalee wakes just after I do and tells me she's going to go out and try to get some food. "Stay here," she tells me. I don't know where she thinks I'm going.

"Why?" I ask, just to see what her reason is. Does she want me to stay here so she can still kill me sometime when she comes back?

"It's dangerous out there," she says.

"It's dangerous everywhere," I point out.

She bites her lip and insists, "Just, please, don't leave. I need you, too, you know." Did I really make it that obvious that I need her?

I nod and wait until she leaves. When she does, I scramble over to her backpack and pick through it. She carried all her weapons with her, it seems, when she left to go hunting, which makes sense. I don't think she kills other tributes. So far, since the Games started, I've heard twelve cannon fires in all. Half of us dead, half of us still left for slaughter. At this point, now that I know the brutality of some of the tributes out there, I'm not sure which is worse.

In Adalee's bag I find the same sorts of things I have – a canteen of water, running dangerously low, and a rope, severed and worn.

When Adalee returns some time later, she carries two limp animals. She prepares them in silence. Only when I take out my water bottle to take a sip does she speak. "Where did you get that water?" she questions immediately.

"At a lake along the way," I tell her.

"I don't have much water left," she says, focusing on the animal she's gutting. "Do you think… I could have some?"

I can tell she's hesitant only because she doesn't want to deprive me of any water that I found. But I graciously hand her my bottle and she gladly takes a gulp.

"Thank you," she says, wiping her mouth on her arm.

There's silence after that, until she rolls up her pants because of the warm weather and I notice a red slash along her right shin. "What happened to you?" I ask, staring.

She looks at me and, following my gaze, rests her eyes on her shin. "Oh," she says, "I went to the Cornucopia. I had to swim though that water to get there. I was swimming as fast as I could when I felt something brush against my leg. I don't know what it was, but it felt sharp, like a claw of some sort, and it stung. I guess it hasn't fully healed yet."

"How do you know it isn't poison?"

She looks up at me again. "I don't," she says. "I'm just hoping for the best."

I almost laugh. "There is no _best_ to hope for in the Hunger Games," I tell her.

She almost laughs, too, and then adds, as if as an afterthought, "Unless the odds are ever in your favor."

When the meat is ready and we are eating it together, I decide to find out more about Adalee. "Do you have any siblings?" I ask.

She looks up from her meat. "I have a sister," she tells me simply.

"How old is she?" I say.

She seems wary suddenly. "Sixteen."

Another tribute with a sibling old enough to volunteer for them but didn't. I wince at the thought of Kurt because he hasn't crossed my mind once since the start of the Games.

"What's she like?" I wonder, trying to start up a conversation.

Her eyes on me seem to become hostile. "Simple," she says shortly.

I remember her interview before the Games and recall that she didn't like to tell much about herself. Secretive, almost. Afraid to give too much away. But is it really a matter of being afraid?

"I have a brother," I say, trying to encourage her that it's all right to speak about these things. "He's young," I say, and then I'm adding on, "too young to understand." I look down, almost feeling embarrassed that I had to say that. But I can feel her eyes on me.

"My sister," she says after a long period of silence, "is very ordinary." But I can tell that even just saying that took all her effort to spill her secrets about her private life. I wonder what this means about her, the girl in front of me, that she's willing to call her sister simple in front of the whole country.

We're done eating, but neither of us speaks. We just stare into space, thinking about our families, thinking about the Games, thinking about each other.

Finally she sighs. "Okay," she says, "do you think you can lead me to that place you got your water from?"

"It's a long way away," I say truthfully – I was there before I came across Lance, and we walked a while away from the lake when we were together.

"That's fine," she says. "I just need water. Unless there's some place else that's closer," she adds.

"I don't think so," I tell her. "It will take the better part of the day to get there."

She nods. "Let's go."

A little later, when we've gathered up all out supplies and carry everything in our backpacks, we are walking back to the place where I found the water. I can't be exactly sure where it is, but I think I know the approximate direction.

"So, you're thirteen now, huh?" Adalee says just to start up conversation, I'm sure.

"Yes," I answer.

"I remember being thirteen." She says this the way an old woman would recall her days as a teenager.

"Well, it was only a year ago, wasn't it?" I ask, recalling her age.

"Yes, but still," she tells me. "That was the year I had my first boyfriend."

"_You_ had a boyfriend?" I ask, incredulous.

She seems offended when she turns to face me. "Yes, why are you so surprised?"

Seeing she took it the wrong way, I quickly say, "You just never seemed that feminine to me." It's the truth.

She looks ahead again and says, "Not all boys want daisies, you know."

We walk for about twenty minutes more in silence. We drop all talk about boys.

"Are we getting closer?" I can tell Adalee has thin patience.

"A little," I say. "Remember? I told you it would take a while."

Suddenly, she stops short and thrusts her arm out in front of me. I bump into it. When I look up at Adalee's face, it's hard as rock, cold as steel, and still as the dead. She's concentrating, listening. I stay quiet. "Someone's coming," she hisses, and my heartbeat beats crazily, and I almost feel nauseous.

And then, out of nowhere, a girl pops out of the bushes, followed by one, two, three, four, five other tributes. Six of them

Adalee tenses immediately and curses sharply while adrenaline courses through me and all my senses become wildly alert.

The girl, the first girl, I recognize as the girl from District 3. I gulp. Hard. She has a sick grin on her face as she pulls out her double-edged sleek sword. It throws a beam of light around and it shines on my face.

The other careers, I assume, surround us. Adalee puts her back up to mine, and I numbly slip out a knife.

Almost unconsciously, my fingers flutter to the stop under my shirt where the necklace my dad sent to me rests.

_Safety looks pretty far away from me now, Dad,_ I think weakly.

And that's when they start to lunge.

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry it's been so long since my last update! D: Please review and PREDICT!**

**~avian-american-supporter**


	19. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 18**_

A boy career with brown eyes and light hair steps up to me first. He has a sword in his hand, bigger than the District 3 girl's. Clumsier, I'll bet, too.

He lunges at me, swinging the sword heavily through the air. I step backwards to avoid its path. Four of the others all swivel their heads to one girl – the girl I recognize as the girl from District 3. "You three –" she gestures with her head to the boy with the sword, a girl with a knife, and another boy with a spear "—get the small one."

It doesn't take me long to realize that I am the small one. The other three – the District 3 girl, a girl with a spear, and a boy with a mace – all circle in on Adalee. The girl from District 3 holds a knife in one hand and a grimace on her face.

And then we are fighting.

The girl with a knife battling me makes a quick slash toward me, but I leap backwards, just barely having time to reach back and pull out the knife I had taken when Lance threw it at me so long ago.

The boy with the sword slashes out at me again, and I duck low to the ground – and roll out of the way just in time as a spearhead implants itself into the dirt where I used to be.

I get up quickly and hold out my knife like I'm an expert at using it. I know I should try being offensive, but I don't think I can find an opportunity to make a move without being killed in the process.

In the background I can hear Adalee's battle some ways to my left. I can hear her grunts, her battle cries, the noises she makes as she deflects blows with her knife. _She, _at least, can fight. I can throw, and I guess that's my best shot. But if I miss, I'm left without a weapon.

My conspiracy leaves me clueless and I can't make an offensive move without having to deflect right after. This much is clear.

The boy with the spear reaches forward to recover his spear, and I raise my knife and slash his arm, squeamish to kill. _Come on, Thyme, _I think to myself, _this is kill or be killed, here! There's no room for mercy. _I gulp real hard and look down at the blood streaming down the boy's arm as his cry of surprise and pain fill my ears.

I duck under another slash from the boy's heavy sword and leap behind a tree to avoid the girl's knife as she throws it at me. It hits the ground three yards away, and I try not to think before I rush out to get it because I know that if I let myself think I will hesitate, and then it will be too late.

I swoop down and let my hand reach down to retrieve it –

- When I collide with another body. The girl and I squabble for the knife – she grabs my arm but when I raise my own knife at her she releases me quickly. Then I reach down and take the knife and move, just as the spear of one of the boy's comes sailing down where I used to be.

I take a chance to briefly look over at Adalee to see how she's holding up. I am only a little surprised to see a bloody body on the grassy floor – not dead but wounded. Adalee is locked in a tense fight with the District 3 girl and another career, but she notices my glance and calls out to me, "Run, Thyme!"

_She wants me to get away. _I feel something rise up in my chest at the thought that she would rather let me get away than to ensure her own safety. _Does she really care about me?_ I think, and then remind myself, _Of course she does. If she didn't, why wouldn't she have killed me that first day when she knew I was up in that tree all along?_

I am about to shake my head no when Adalee sees my hesitation and shouts again, louder this time, _"Thyme, run!"_

And so I do.

The two knives clenched in my hands, I sprint through the forest, away from the fights behind me. Adrenaline surges me on, making me forget that I will get tired at some point if I keep running like this. But that doesn't matter. When you're being hunted, you have to rely on instincts to take over. But right now, all that's going through my head is one thought: _Get away._

"Get her!" I hear someone shout behind me – probably the District 3 girl. And, though I dare not look back for fear it'll slow me down – I can hear two sets of heavy footsteps bounding after me. _Chasing me,_ I think.

But then I trip over a root on the forest floor and I'm falling, falling, falling, and I can already feel the weight of my doom closing in on me. The bruises and cuts don't matter now. What does matter is the final blow that will finish me because I tripped just then.

I can hear more footsteps coming. "Thyme!" I hear Adalee yell. _She followed me? _I think hazily. But then I hear clashes, and I can see it in my mind: Adalee fighting off my two pursuers to get to me first.

I feel her cold, battle-hardened hands on me, pulling me to my feet. Her face is grim and bloody, dirt and grime in her knotted blonde hair.

I right myself quickly – I don't want to be a burden to her, especially after she's sacrificed so much to save me.

"Get up," she hisses to me, not unkindly. The adrenaline pumping through me body makes every sense aware as can be, and I can't hope to miss the tension in Adalee's voice – is she scared?

But now the careers have caught up to us. The District 3 girl is also here, and she glowers at Adalee with fierce hatred.

And then everything is once again a blur.

Adalee is locked into battle with the girl from District 3, and they both slash with equal agility and strength.

The others attack me – one is missing now since Adalee severely wounded one of her own attackers that now cannot walk or even hope to catch up to us. The two that had attacked me before glare at me now, brandishing their weapons. They slash, they rip, they tear through the air with their blades and points, me only surviving by dodging and deflecting. It's all going so fast – attack after attack after attack. And how is Adalee doing?

Just as the thought crosses my mind I hear her, grunting but not screaming. As I take a quick glance over I can see the District 3 girl cutting her arms and legs – though Adalee weilds a powerful axe, the girl from District 3 is better.

I clench my teeth – I can't risk losing focus now – and try to deal with my attackers.

But there are too many.

The blood pounding in my ears, I try to take a step forward with my knife, Lance's knife, trying to hurt the others. But they simply take a step away and then advance with even more force, knocking me down with a spear end or a knife hilt.

_It all seems so impossible, _I find myself thinking when I'm knocked on the ground, being cut up and sliced and diced by these cruel teenagers.

I get up, trying to gather myself, and I try again to make some kind of offensive move. But even through the adrenaline I can see the shake in my limbs, the labored breaths heaving my chest, the imbalance in my feet. _No,_ I think to myself. _I can't be wearing down._ I just can't. My life depends on it.

And suddenly, since the first time I entered the Games, I feel the true weight of the fight, the ongoing fight, to the death.

_I could die today._

Adalee makes another painful noise somewhere behind me and to my left. I can't see her, but I know she sees me, and that means she'll see when I yell.

"Adalee!" I shout, trying to keep some harshness in my voice, as if that will scare away the careers. "Adalee, leave! I'll be fine!"

She seems surprised, and for a minute, I'm thinking about how I would feel if my distraction got her killed. But she regains her stance and yells back over the clashing of weapons, "No!" Her voice is strong. "No, I won't leave you like that."

I'm knocked to the ground again, and this time I see how torn and bloodied my clothes are from wounds my adrenaline-pumped body isn't feeling. "Just go!" I shout from the ground, rolling across the ground to move away from the spear sailing overhead. "I'm not worth it." And suddenly my voice isn't a yell anymore, it's a whimper. A plea. "I'm not worth your life." A whisper I know she can't hear.

She doesn't say anything back. Maybe she knows I'm dead meat anyway and there's no point in staying if she'll just get hurt as well. Either that or she won't let me say anything else and she will go down with me.

_God, no,_ I'm thinking.

"Don't say that," she finally says out of nowhere. "You are worth it." Then, with her axe locked in the other girl's, she turns to me, her face bloody and grimey and covered in the filth of survival, and says, "You are worth a thousand lives."

And then she throws herself against the girl, her axe in hand, weilded expertly, and then she pulls herself up, gives me one last, meaningful look, and then disappears into the trees, vanishing, saving herself and dooming me at the same time but still remaining a hero in my eyes for trying so, so hard to make me survive.

But now I am on the ground, lying there, limp and weak, and I am alone.

Utterly alone except for the piece of my father tied around my neck that tells me one thing:

_Safety_.

And then I am looking up at four wild faces of four tributes crazed for blood and slaughter. And I am their pig, a small creature too weak to even whisper a word of helplessness, a final cry.

But then the terror of death grips me, and all my willpower tells me to get up and run…

…But I just can't do it. I can't make myself move, no matter how much of me there is left that's even worth saving.

"Well, well, well," one career says. My brain is so fuzzy I don't even know who it is. "Look who's been left abandoned all alone. Left to die."

_Left to die._

_Left to die._

_Left to die._

The words echo in my head like an omen, or a doom that everyone can see coming but no one wants to believe.

Except for me, it's completely believable.

And then there's darkness, a black, blankness that seems so whole that I almost forget everything else, even though the cold rocks of the arena are still under me, touching my back where the shirt has torn beneath it.

And then there's pain, a sharp, stabbing pain, and then there's hot liquid. _My own blood,_ I'm able to think, but the thought doesn't scare me.

Because Adalee got away.

And my father still loves me.

And not I try to send one thought to my faithful companion, still trapped in this torturous arena:

_Be safe._

And then everything is gone.

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry for any spelling errors – my spellcheck went weird and left me. :'(**

**So this chapter was very sad. It was very very very hard to write because in a way, this main character is me, and I basically just killed myself. Please please please review because I need need need to know how I did this. Am I good at this? Bad at this? Please write anything you think I should know. Also, I found it odd that generally, according to this and two other novels, chapter 18 is a deadly chapter. If someone ever dies, they will die in chapter 18. Just the way it is. Anyway. Thank you for reading this far in my story, I think you're amazing! Especially the12thcookie, my PM ninja best friend forever! :)))) Yay I get to go to bed now. **

**~avian-american-supporter**


	20. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19**_

I'm running through the woods when I hear the cannon and know that she's gone. I try to push away the stinging in my nose and the tears that slide themselves down my cheeks, but that doesn't help to abate the sadness that stabs through my core. Soon the hovercraft will be sent over to pick her up and send her body back home.

_Or at least whatever's left of it._ The guilty thought squeezes itself into my mind and I can't help but cringe. _You were the one that left her there, after all._

what she wanted, wasn't it? Does it make me such a bad person to obey a girl's dying wish?

But it's over now. Done. That's behind me. She's behind me. And now all I have to think about it putting as much distance as possible between me and those killers.

It seems like I run forever. The day grows dark soon and I have to stop to get water. Quickly, I fill the bottle and drop some iodine inside and then keep going.

Only when I stop, only when the thoughts of survival leave me, does what just happened sink in.

Thyme, the young girl in the tree, my ally til the end, my companion in this torturous arena – is dead.

Killed, like the rest of them. I've been counting now and there are eight of us left. Five careers, since I brought one down, me, and two others, somewhere…

_Who are the two others? _I'm thinking. _Who else is left?_

I wonder if Lynn, my mentor back in District 7, will send me anything. After all, I did just flee the battlefield where my teammate died – why would anyone sponsor me now? _Maybe the others are worse, _I tell myself. _Maybe the others are so unlikable that they have to sponsor me._

I sigh because I know it doesn't work that way. But still the thought nags me – who are the other two tributes?

I decide I don't have the time to worry about that. Right now, I have to get water.

I keep on going until I simply can't keep running anymore. I'm exhusted, thirsty, and shaken from the death I've seen today. It's hard to remember that Thyme was with me just hours ago, before we were attacked.

Thankfully, I find the river before long. _The_ river, the one Thyme had been guiding me to when we were interrupted. Except obviously not the same spot – I'm way too far away from there. But the water is here nevertheless, and I unload my backpack to fill my waterbottle and clean my weapons.

_My weapons. _They are dirty and covered in blood, but in good enough shape. I look over behind me, towards the Cornucopia through the thicket of trees. I could restock, if I wanted to, but I don't need to.

_But someone else does._

I think back to my battle with the District 3 girl. In my final lunge to get away from her, I snapped her only knife. Just the tip, that's all – it wasn't able to hold my weight. But now she only has a jagged piece of it, and she won't be satisfied with that.

She will need to go back to the Cornucopia to retrieve another knife.

Unless I get there first.

But I'm getting too ahead of myself. I lay myself down on the ground, briefly, while I wait for the iodine to purify the water. I try to think of what Thyme would say right now, but I can't. Even though she feels like she could be a sister to me, it's true I've only known her for a few days.

I sigh and sit back up. Maybe it's better that she has died. I cringe at the selfish thought. But then I remind myself that I'm not being selfish – after all, if she had lived, I wouldn't want it to come down to the two of us.

If I do survive to the end, at least the top three, I know the girl from District 3 will be in it. She's a tough one and won't be the kind of tribute to die to soon. That's why I have my mission – that's why first thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to the Cornucopia.

Night comes while I'm still at the river. I lay my backpack against a tree for a cushion and lean on it, looking up at the sky where the tributes killed today show themselves. First is the career during the attack that I managed to wound, not kill. Probably bled out later, unless the girl from District 3 decided to kill him before he could become a burden to her. I shiver at the coldheartedness of the girl in my mind.

Next comes Thyme, the face I learned to love so much. I remember what she had said, too low because she didn't want me to hear but I did anyway. _"I'm not worth your life."_

I feel a jab in my chest and it feels like a cold hand punched me there. But then Thyme's face fades, and I'm all alone again.

**Author's Note:**

**So obviously chapter 18 wasn't the last chapter. I thought readers would want to know who ended up winning, though I'm not fully decided myself. D: Anyway, so now I've switched to Adalee's point of view, since Thyme died. I want to say thanks to the12thcookie and Kate2623 for reading my story so loyally. :))))**


	21. Chapter 20

_**Chapter 20**_

The moment I open my eyes, I remember my mission for today.

I stand, sliding my water bottle out of my backpack and looking into the harsh light of the rising sun. The Cornucopia, golden on that sandbar in the middle of the water – I can see it from here.

My water bottle open, I make my way to the water's edge and fill it quickly before dropping in some iodine. I screw the top back on and put it back in my pack.

I scan the perimenter of the beach to make sure no other tributes will attack me. The coast is clear.

My leg muscles tense as adrenaline races through me – I know I'm going to have to race as fast as I can, sliding through the water without a sound – to avoid attention.

I rub my hands together and take a deep breath, crouching low before –

And then I'm sprinting across the sand, darting to the water's edge where I dive under.

The cool water caresses me greedily at contact, and I'm reminded with a shiver of what I felt when I first plunged into these same waters in the first minute of the Games. It was like a fin or something.

Something is living in these waters.

By the time I surface, reaching the sand again with my toes, I'm relieved to get out of the suspicious water. I'm dripping, water streaming from my chin, hair, clothes, everywhere. And I'm panting.

But that doesn't stop me. I search with predator's eyes, searching for anything the District 3 girl might want to use. Knives, swords, spears, what? I don't need to use it, I just need to have it.

I'm about to let my fingers close around the hilt of a knife I see in the sand when I hear a noise and I stop dead, sweat already breaking through my pores. _Who was that?_

It's a ripping sound. Like someone is ripping a box.

The fact seems to echo in my head. _Someone is ripping a box. Someone is ripping a box._

_ Someone _is ripping a box.

I have company.

Trying to calm my frantic breaths, I carefully slide my feet across the sand until I can peer just around the edge of the Cornucopia to see the second body on the sandbar with me.

First it's an elbow, then a knee, then a hip, then a head, and then I'm standing yards behind the boy in the sand with a parachute in his hands.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Sorry I haven't been updating this story in a while. But I finally decided I needed to work on the Hunger Games, so I started writing. I know this chapter is small, but I hope it still counts for something! And now the question: who did Adalee see?**_


	22. Chapter 21

_**Chapter 21**_

When the boy sees me, he jumps with fright and scrambles away from me, dragging himself across the sand. Then his eyes fall on the axe gripped in my lifted hand and he says, "I surrender! I surrender!"

"You coward." I spit the word. Then a small flare of recognition shows itself in me and I recognize him.

"You…" I'm saying then. He hurries to get to his feet, looking for a weapon. But the closest weapon to him is the axe in my hand. "You're from Thyme's District."

"I am," he confirms, clearly afraid.

I lower the axe. But still my grip remains firm on it. In case he's faking and this is simply an act to distract me.

"Do you know they killed her?" I question angrily. I'm moving toward him now, anger showing itself in every step I take.

"Please don't hurt me," he whimpers.

"I kill you right now," I tell him. I'm in front of him now, the axe raised above my head. He's huddled into a ball at my feet, trembling, his eyes shut tight and his hands raised above him as if they could save him from my axe.

"But instead," I hear myself say as I lower the axe slightly, "I will let you go."

_What?_ I ask myself. He's so easy. Nothing he could do could stop me from taking his life. He clearly isn't acting, I can see that now. But still, I feel like we have a connection. The only two in the arena that knew Thyme. Maybe he even knew her when they were younger.

I stand up again, lowering my weapon, watching him as he scrambles to his feet.

"Farewell," I tell him as he takes his parachute on the sand and starts to head back to the water. Then, before he turns, I hold his gaze and raise my right hand into an open fist because I know what it will mean to him. Thyme taught me that.

_Be safe._

He nods with a grim face, as if he just remembered that everything out there wants to kill him. Then he raises three fingers to his lips and stretches them out toward me, a sign of respect. I nod in acceptance and turn away before I can watch him go.

I know I spared his life, but I might as well have just sentenced him to death anyway. Because out there, there are careers, and careers are merciless. And he won't stand a chance against them if they happen to find him. By not asking to be allies, I left him helpless. He will not survive.

But I wouldn't want it to come down to the two of us.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**So that was Kurt, I hope you could realize.**_

_**Pleasepleasepleaseplease review! Oh, and I'm almost finished with the outline, finally – this whole time I've been writing without one – and it will have 24 or 25 chapters at the end.**_

_**~avian-american-supporter**_


	23. Chapter 22

_**Chapter 22**_

I see the boy's face in the sky tonight. I shouldn't be, but I feel sad that I made the decision to let him die. It doesn't make any sense when we're all in this arena to kill each other anyway.

First thing the next morning I go to look for berries. Only when I'm searching do I realize that hunger has been eating away at me. When was the last time I ate?

But a more haunting question surfaces in my mind as I walk through the woods:

_Will I die today?_

There are only four of us left. I know that the District 3 girl will have to come after me soon. With a shiver I wonder if she's planning on killing off her allies yet.

I force my mind to think about other things as I keep walking.

But still, my mind continues to drift back to the things at hand. The District 3 girl. Her two allies. Me. Alone.

And then I find myself swimming through the creature-infested waters to the sandbar, and I'm staggering ashore, soaking wet, settling my backpack down as I sit next to it, waiting underneath the Cornucopia for the final battle.

_**Author's Note:**_

**_So Kurt died. Sad! I mean, I think it was a bit of a mistake that he outlived Thyme, since he was sort of a coward and Thyme was awesome, but it had to happen, okay? Anyway, so it is confirmed – there will be a grand total of 24 CHAPTERS in this entire story, so we're almost done. To all my faithful readers (of which there are two), thank you so much for reviewing! :))))))))) Leave predictions, please! It isn't as obvious who will win as _The Hunger Games_ were – after all, I did already kill my first person character before! :(_**

_**~avian-american-supporter**_

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	24. Chapter 23

_**Chapter 23**_

I hear the shouting before I see them.

The three of them, the District 3 girl and her pack of two, are on the other side of the water. I'm about to run and hide behind the Cornucopia, thinking I'll have the upper hand if I can jump out and surprise them, but it's too late. I know this as their malicious little eyes fall on me, planning out the best way to end me already.

As if on command, the three of them race toward the water, ravenously splashing through to get to me and get out of this arena. I can't run, I know they'll catch me. So I stand and wait for them to come, my heart racing a million miles an hour.

But then something happens.

The two careers, the ones that aren't the girl from 3, are being pulled down, their faces the picture of horror before they're sunk under the surface.

One comes back up again, thrashing to get away, knowing he is under attack. His arms flail a little as he struggles to kick towards land as the other resurfaces as well. Clearly, they've been attacked by the same thing in the water that gave me the scar on my leg.

Then something leaps out of the water, something with a powerful, long tail and a wild noise coming from its mouth.

_They're mermaids,_ I realize with horror as I watch one lunge onto the boy career, pulling him under the water. The girl screams as a second mermaid, with a long, sleek silver tail and a grotesque face leaps out of the water three feet away from her before lunging at her, too. This time, neither of them resurface.

The girl from District 3 moves faster, swimming with power. I don't know how many mermaids are in the water, but two cannons soon boom through the arena and I know there are enough to kill us if either of us go back into the water.

But then, the District 3 girl comes out of the water alive, her clothes trailing water, a knife in her hand that one of the other careers must have given her, not looking even a little devastated at the lost of her comrades.

Instead, she raises her head to me, the water still gently lapping at her feet while she breathes heavily, her once beautiful hair stringy as she faces me with a ravenous bloodthirsty glare.

It's time.


	25. Chapter 24

_**Chapter 24**_

I don't have time to fear for my life.

All I can feel is the adrenaline dumping itself into my veins as the vicious girl from District 3 saunters toward me, the knife gripped in her hand fiercely, a twisted look on her face.

She runs at me, sand flying out from under her feet. The knife held high, she brings it down with a strong arm, intending to slash me to ribbons, but I duck down, slinking around her legs and coming up behind her.

Before I can think about whether it's right or wrong to kill this girl, I bring my axe down, trying to chop her in half at the waist.

Then she flattens herself on the sand to avoid my hit. She turns right side up quickly before I can try to hit her again while she's not looking.

Making a split decision, I jump on top of her, bringing my elbow down hard on her stomach, feeling the wind whoosh out of her.

Then a knife is swinging toward my face, and I just have time to bring up my axe to stop it before it hits me. The clash makes the piercing noise of metal on metal.

She tries to push harder, but I am able to counter her strength. Suddenly, the girl's fist is flying toward me, and I don't have enough time to do anything about it. Her fist punches me hard in the face, possibly breaking my nose, and it starts to bleed. The metallic taste of blood reaches my mouth.

Dazed, the girl from District 3 is able to stand up, scrambling out from beneath me. She stands tall above me, the knife in her hand, ready to drive it into me to win. Just as she brings it down, I roll aside across the sand.

I stumble to my feet, knowing she'll have the advantage if she's on her feet and I'm not. Air courses through my lungs and sweat drips down my forehead. My heart is beating crazily now – if this goes on for too long the adrenaline is going to burn off.

But my eyes narrow as my gaze sets on the girl from District 3 – her hair as messy as mine must be, her face as angry and nervous, now that she knows I won't be easy.

I grip my axe with tense hands, knowing this has to end, and it has to end _now._ Whether she kills me or not, I have to get out of this hell.

So I raise the axe above my head, and, with a roar, I charge toward my enemy. I bring the axe down where her arm is, but she sidesteps away and I miss. Out of the corner of my eye I see the glint of her blade and try to move away, just as she brings down the knife, and though she doesn't slice my arm off, she wounds me with a deep cut down my whole upper arm.

I suck in a breath, the cut bleeding down my elbow and onto the sand, making this seem more and more like a massacre. I force myself not to let any tears escape – _pain is only a message,_ I remind myself.

Bloodied and panting, struggling to suck in enough oxygen to keep my muscles working, I notice that the other girl doesn't even have a scratch on her from this battle. I haven't even nicked her once. A few bruises, maybe, but while she looks like she could be driven half to madness, she isn't in tatters like I am.

This time she lunges at me with a battle cry, the knife raised above her head. I lose my balance trying to back away and I fall onto the sand, my back pressing against it and getting it in my clothes.

Then the girl is sitting on top of me, her knees on either side of my body, the knife raised above her head. She doesn't even say anything like the rest of them do right before they kill someone. She probably thinks this is it – that after she brings that knife down she'll suddenly be back home.

She brings the knife down, it's sharp, deadly blade gleaming in the fake sunlight of the arena.

But I somehow find the strength – and the willpower – to raise my axe just in front of me, locking her blade with mine.

I know it's easier to push down than it is to push up. Add my sliced up arm to the equation and my odds aren't so good.

But still I push, pushing, pushing, pushing, with my arm feeling like it's on fire from the cut that's still bleeding.

At first she seems angry that I didn't just die already, give up the fight. But then she just seems a little more desperate, her strength wavering.

_This is my chance._ I suck in a breath, pushing as hard as I possibly can, thinking of my family, thinking of District 7, thinking of Thyme, thinking of the boy that died, and thinking of this girl, right here, that might just steal everything away from me.

Anger propelled me to push with all my strength, sending the girl from District 3 rolling across the sand away from me with a grunt.

In a wild attempt to hurt me, she leans over a bit so she can see me and then throws her knife in my direction. I throw myself to the side, hearing it sail past me and skitter into the sand a few feet behind me.

The girl is now shrieking, yelling wordlessly before she stand up quickly and sets her eyes on the knife before she starts running.

Seeing her goal and knowing that I am really tiring out fast now, I know that if she gets her hands on her weapon, then she will kill me.

So with another roar, I sprint towards her as fast as I can and barrel into her knocking her down onto the sand again.

She grunts as we hit the ground, and I kneel on top of her, knees on either side, just like she did to me, except this time, she has no weapon to save herself.

I watch as the beautiful girl from District 3 crumbles into a desperate being. She's shrieking now, tears streaming down her face, yelling not words but just a steady stream of "AAAAHHHHHHH!" She doesn't seem surprised, not even scared or angry, just desperate not to kill me, but just to go home.

I raise my axe.

And then, as if in slow motion, I bring it down, still watching the girl's face, feeling the weight of the axe pull itself down through the air that separates this girl from death.

I let it do as it drops.

And then everything is quiet – the girl's screams, the arena, the country.

Then the cannon booms through the silence.

I feel like I'm in a daze as I stand, the horror of murder still fresh in my mind. But still the relief finds its way through me, weaving itself into every vein and implanting itself in every cell. Finally, the safety that I've been begging for, the knowledge that no one is looking to kill me.

The victory music is going off, the trumpets and the national anthem and the clapping. I stand taller, not looking down at the corpse at my feet but looking at the fake sky, knowing soon I'll be seeing the real one.

_I did it Thyme,_ I think numbly. _I won the Hunger Games. _

I won the Hunger Games.

_**THE END**_

_**A/N:**_

_**THE END!**_

_**Thanks to everyone who read my story sooo much! I look forward to your reviews every time I update. I finished my other story and now I finished this one, so now I have nothing to write! :) Better start something new, I guess. I was actually inspired to finish this up at 6:45 AM or so because I had a dream where I was in the Hunger Games. Only when I woke up did I realize how TERRIFYING that would actually be. :) But wow, I'm done with The 73rd Hunger Games! I can't believe I can say that now! I truly enjoyed writing this and OH MY GOSH YAY A BOOK COMES OUT TODAY! :)))))))**_

_**thank you all,**_

_**~avian-american-supporter**_


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